An American Squib in Romania
by the.ravenclaw.woods
Summary: If Snape's alive, then there's only one explanation. "I'm stuck inside a fanfic," I blurt, glancing up at him again. He barely raises an eyebrow. "Ah. She speaks." -Self aware/OC insert. Mary Sue tropes tracked! Latinx. Slow burn with CW- "This whole fic is the craziest acid trip" -reviewer lareepqg
1. Nope, Not in Kansas Anymore

_Ever wonder what it's like to appear in a fanfic? Greta's about to find out._

 _This premise came to me in two dreams. The idea wouldn't let go, so I sat down and got to it._

 _Bear with me as I set up a plot. Our first classic character appears next chapter._

* * *

"Viggo, you can have the lollipop after dinner." I shake the take-out in my free hand. "See here? We've got arroz con pollo."

"Pollo," my son repeats, but it sounds more like "po-ho."

"Yes, pollo. Then you'll have your lollipop, I'll put on some 'police cars,' on my phone, and then Mommy can finally—" I stop, staring at the boxes gathered in front of my apartment. "What the fuck?"

"Fuh," Viggo says, but I'm too much shock to stop him.

"Oh, my god," I say, putting him down, grabbing my keys out of my purse. I shove one in, but can't even push it halfway through the keyhole. "Shit."

"Shit."

"No, Viggo," I put my hand on my head. "That's a 'mommy-word,' remember? You don't get to say those." I pick him up, adjusting his weight on my hip, and rush towards the apartment offices.

He nods with a grin on his face, and says, very slowly: "Shhhit."

x

"What do you mean, 'not this time'?" It's all I can do to keep my voice below shriek-level.

"I mean, you're late on the rent. Two months late."

"Last time I was this late, you gave me another month, Danny."

"And I said, I wasn't gonna do that again. And I'm not."

I glare at him, the grease stains on his shirt, at his curled, thin comb over. Literally the stereotypical Jersey landlord. Probably why he's so hateful.

"What am I gonna do, then? Huh?" I know I'm not in a position to lace my voice with antagonism, but I can't help it. He knows what I've been through. What we've been through, I amend in my head, smoothing Viggo's bangs over.

"Not my problem." He waves me off.

"I have a child." I gesture animatedly to Viggo, who's digging through the diaper bag, probably for that lollipop I told him was in there.

"There's a womens' shelter on 7th. That's all I can tell you."

I roll my eyes. I know very well where that god-forsaken place is, and Danny knows that, too.

"I'm not going back there."

"You got no choice, sweetheart."

I curl my hands into fists. God, I hate it when he calls me that. He smirks when I sigh and drop my shoulders. Maybe this is better, I tell myself. Maybe by the end of the week, we'll be living somewhere where I don't have to answer to swine like this shit in front of me.

"Well, can you at least give me a ride? It's already eight. The busses stop in an hour, and that's if they're even still running." I make my voice waver as though I'm on the verge of tears.

"No can do," he says, shrugging with a smile. "My car's in the shop."

"You're a fucking liar. I just walked right by it."

"Hey," he says, jabbing a finger towards my face. "I'm sick of your shit, Greta. I'm done helping you out."

"Helping me out? When's the last time you've done anything but making life hell for every-freakin'-body who lives here?"

He's pulled out his phone. "You're trespassing and I'm calling the cops. If you think spending the night at the shelter is bad—"

"Fine," I say, throwing my bags all over my shoulders. "But don't you dare sell my keyboard!"

"Pick it up by tomorrow, then."

I lift Viggo and march out, slamming the door as hard as I can.

x

I sigh and check my watch, spooning the last of our dinner into Viggo's mouth. He drums his hands on the bench. It's nine-fucking-ten. Officially past both of our bedtimes. And the goddamn bus is nowhere to be found.

The sky is dark, with the last hint of sunset in the distance. To the right, a thumbnail moon gives the clouds around it a silver sheen. I take a breath. It's amazing how gorgeous such a crapshoot day can look.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the contacts. "No," I murmur. "No, no, nope. Hell fucking no, and dead." I pause on the name of my husband, and continue. "No, no." I glance at Viggo, who's trying to scoop an errant rice grain with a plastic butter knife. "This is some tough shit, kiddo." I sigh. "Apparently, next time we start over, I need to make at least one friend who can bail me out of fucking homelessness."

"Do you believe in magic, Miss?"

I turn my head to see the form of some old woman who's sat down on the bench. Her back is so hunched over, she's practically bent in half, and she looks like she's dressed to be a nameless peasant from Outlander. Also, she's obviously psychotic, her bright eyes lingering on me and Viggo as she awaits my response. I consider ignoring her, but she leans over. "I do." It's a conspirator's whisper, like we're chums stealing secrets, not strangers, idiotically waiting for a bus that's not coming.

"You do." I raise an eyebrow. "That's great."

"I do. Magic is everywhere. But muggles can't see it. Unlike me."

I nearly choke on my next inhale. Ah, a Harry Potter brand of psychosis. Haven't encountered that one before. I swallow some water and think of the irony, though, as a prolific writer of Potter fanfic. God, though, the last time I wrote any fanfic was a year ago. Maybe more. So okay, not prolific. But still. Irony.

"You're a witch?" I say. I probably shouldn't engage, but maybe I'll get some inspiration for a new story. If nothing else, this encounter might amuse me in the distant future. When I'm not concerned about where my toddler and I will be sleeping that night.

"Of the four of us here, you're probably the most witchiest witch," she answers with a smile.

Hmm. Me, one, Viggo, two, this crazy old bat. That's three…

"Shh," she says. "Your thoughts are so loud. He's going to see you."

I glance to where she's gesturing and my spine straightens of its own accord. It's a man in a top hat. In fact, his whole outfit looks old like that. Pin-striped and grey, with the vest and suit jacket. And he's pacing across the sidewalk like a caged wildebeest.

Normally, seeing a man dressed up like he belongs in a Steampunk quartet wouldn't startle me. But there's something fucking sinister in the way he moves. His limbs undulate like they're composed of enormous serpents. If we're in a movie, at this point, we are being introduced to the villain of the story. Seriously. He may as well be carrying a large butcher knife in one hand and a machete in the other.

He sees me and smiles, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes, which stay wide. They sparkle under the streetlamp.

I gasp and turn away. I wouldn't know, but I imagine that's exactly how a man grins before they rape a woman. Or how a hyena's eyes sparkle before it rips into the gut of some poor rabbit.

I pick up Viggo. "Don't worry," the woman continues as I throw bags over my shoulders. "I won't let him get you this time."

I glance at the man. He's walking over, eyes still on me, his stride so long, he appears as though he's floating.

"Into the park," she whispers. "Now!"

I fucking book it. I look back once more before I reach the trees of Lakedale Park, and I swear, that bitch has pulled out a wand and is aiming it at the man.

But that's fucking bananas.

Right?

Right?

x

"Mama."

I cover my eyes with my arm and grumble.

"Mama." Viggo's fingers are tugging at my shirt.

"You need milk, baby?"

"No."

Did I leave the window open again? 'Cause the birds are loud. It's like they're right… above….my…

I open my eyes before I can finish the thought, and leaves flutter, causing the sunlight to shift over my face.

I lurch up so fast, Viggo jumps and pushes out his bottom lip alongside a whine.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to scare you." I glance around. No weird-ass old lady. No top hat man. I take a sigh as I position Viggo on my breast. He drinks and I groan into the blasted brightness, feeling stupid and pathetic for spending the night hidden in some bushes over what appears to have been a hallucination, at best.

"Or maybe it was a dream," I mumble as I reach into my purse for my phone. God. I need to call in today so I can figure out how I'm gonna procure lodgings for me and Viggo.

But my phone's got no service. "Fuck," I whisper. Do I have any change at all? There's gotta be a pay phone somewhere close by. I dump my purse on the sweater I'd laid out for Viggo to sleep on. My mouth falls open. "This has got to be a joke."

Instead of my wallet, there's a coin purse. Instead of my copy of _The Hidden Life of Trees_ by Peter Wohlleben, there's _Tree Potions: A Beginner's Guide_ by Famifigus Portetus. I reach in the compartment where my change ought to be and… yep, I pull out a fucking wand.

"Where the hell are you, you witch lady," I say loudly, standing. Bitch probably hired Top-Hat to scare me so she could get her jollies off. I peek out of the bushes and freeze when I see two kids whiz by on little broomsticks.

Good lord, there have been advances in toys since I last had the optimism to peruse a Babies R Us catalogue. Viggo clutches at my sweatpants, squealing at the sight. "Don't you dare put that on your Christmas list," I say. He refuses to take his eyes away.

I take a few steps out of the foliage to see if I can spot that old bag. Hmm. There's several families here, with children of varying ages playing.

"Aspen and Fiona, come here." Their mother sounds a bit alarmed. I realize, as she glances at me, that I'm what's alarming her. I look down. My hair's probably tangled up with a few leaves. I'm still in my work sweats. Oh and yeah, I just crawled out of some bushes near children like some kind of pervert. I want to reassure her that I'm normal, but that probably wouldn't help.

"Mama?" Viggo tugs at my pants.

"I'm here, baby," I say, scanning the environs once more. I don't see anyone who looks vaguely familiar, much less either of the weirdos from last night.

I narrow my eyes when I see the mother scolding her daughter. Fiona, I assume. "I don't know how you always get caked in mud," she says. And she's got a flipping wand in her hand. She flicks it near the girl's face, and with each movement, dirt flies off.

"Oh, my god," I say, tearing my gaze at the people around the park again. Half of them are in robes. Wizarding robes. Most of them have wands in their hands. In the distance, I see a father levitating a giggling toddler.

I close my eyes and breathe. It must be some Potter convention. Cosplay. Right? It's gotta be. But wouldn't folks dress up as recognizable characters? There should be, like, sixteen Hermione Grangers or something. I open my eyes again, but it just looks like a bunch of anonymous assholes with wands.

When several adults on brooms fly overhead, laughing and gossiping like they're on a work errand, I fall to the ground.

"Mama!" Viggo says, laughing as he tackles me. He thinks it's some game.

"Miss?" The woman is approaching. "Miss, are you alright?"

"I'm having some kind of episode," I mumble. "Hallucination or something."

"We should get you to the hospital," she says.

"No," I shout, pushing myself up. The last thing I needed was hospital debt on top of everything else.

"Mama, down," Viggo demands.

"Not now, honey," I say.

The woman looks behind me at my makeshift bed and widens her eyes. "Are you—I'm sorry, I don't mean to assume. But are you homeless?"

I give her a long stare. She's got dark eyes and skin. Her hair is in gorgeous, thick twists and she's got them pinned up on her head. And, most importantly, no top hat in sight. Finally, I nod.

"I'm so sorry," she says, her hand on her heart. "For how long?"

I glance at the newspaper in her hands. I don't know what I was expecting, honestly, but yeah. It's the Daily fucking Prophet. The headline states, "POTTER REFUSES COMMENT ON AZKABAN BREAK." Harry Potter's image is there. He holds his hand out as he passes a mob of paparazzi, shaking his head. Over and over and over...

"Miss?"

I jump. "Uh… what was the question, again?"

"Mama," Viggo says, holding his arms up. He looks concerned. He's such a sensitive little man. I grab him and lean him on my hip.

"I was wondering how long you'd been homeless."

My mind whirls. I need a cover and fast. Well, I'm a writer, aren't I?

"Since the war," I croak.

The woman looks appalled. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. "But the war's been over for nearly three years now."

I nod.

"Oh, gods, I'm so sorry," she says. "You must be exhausted. Please, let me make you a meal."

I can't stop staring at my feet, twirling my wand in my hand. My _wand_.

"Miss," she says, touching my arm. "Do it for him, at least." I glance at Viggo, who's brushing his fingers through my hair.

I nod. "Okay."

"Good." She gives a brisk nod. "Get your things, then. We'll do a side-app."

"A side-what?" I say, but she's already turned to grab her kids.

x

Side-apparations suck. Majorly. As soon as we appear in her house, I grab onto the nearest surface, trying not to heave. Viggo, meanwhile, is acting like he's just had the time of his life. "More!" he demands.

I shake my head at him and he pushes his lip out. "Later," I say, reaching in the diaper bag. I pull out a Hot Wheels truck and let him roam the floor of the living area.

It's a nice place. Plush furniture, fireplace, low, wide windows that look over a neighborhood. I'd admire it a lot more if I weren't in the middle of some type of cognitive breakdown.

"What do you like?" she says. "Eggs, bacon? That good?" I nod. "Fiona and Aspen! Please get some tea for our guest. And… juice for your son?"

I shake my head. "We'll both have water, if that's alright."

"Of course! I shouldn't have assumed."

I take long, shuttering breaths as one of the children brings me water. "Thanks," I mumble.

"Are you really homeless?" the girl whispers, her eyes full of sympathy.

"Children! No rude questions! Make yourselves scarce, please." They both bound away, the girl glancing back at me once more.

"I'm so sorry," the woman approaches, wiping her hands. "I've just realized I've never introduced myself. I'm Anja."

"Nice to meet you," I say, my voice cracking. I take her hand. "I'm Greta Riverstone. My son, Viggo." It dawns on me that our names actually work perfectly in Potterverse. How have I never noticed that before?

"Pleasure. You're from the States, aren't you?" When I nod, she clasps her hand together. "How lovely! I so rarely meet Americans here. There's just no sense in them transferring all the way here, with the Ama Verde reserve in Mexico, you know?"

I nod like I know exactly what she's talking about. There's a chime. "Oh! That'll be the food." She ushers for me and Viggo to follow.

At the dining room table, she picks up her wand. "May I?" she asks. I shrug, and she levitates Viggo to the chair, which grows taller and narrower to adjust to him. Straps appear to tie him in, and a platter floats in front of him with toast and bacon and eggs, all cut up in toddler-sized pieces. "He can feed himself?" she asks. When I nod, she directs the plate within his grasp, and he starts going to town, starting with the bacon.

She places a similar plate in front of me. "Thank you," I say, just now realizing how starved I am. She politely waits for me to eat, washing up as she gives me random, sideways glances. I know she's about to ask for my details, and I'm pretty sure I've got some sufficient lies to fill in by now. At least, I hope to god they are.

"So, Greta," she begins. "What happened? How did you get here? How long have you been in Romania?"

I nearly spit out my water. "Romania?" I say between coughing fits.

"Come again?" she asks. I shake my head and she has a seat next to me, placing a hand on mine. "I know this must be difficult for you," she says. "But you need to tell me something, okay? So we can figure out exactly what you need. And where we can go from here."

"Right." Okay. I got this. "I'm muggleborn," I begin. "And my husband is also a muggle. Was a muggle." I glance out the window, where a rough wind is rustling the trees. "Uh- we were near Diagon Alley when it happened. You know, in London? We were captured by, uh, Death Eaters."

"You must've been on the registration list," she says.

"Maybe," I say. "I don't recall much. They, uh, killed him first." I take a long pause. Most of that statement isn't a lie. "And they tortured me with a variety of curses. The Cruciatus. And it made me a little—" I pause. "Confused. A lot of my memory is missing. Like—who they were, the Death Eaters that did this to me. And I don't remember magic."

"Magic?" she asks.

"How to do it, you know? I have my wand, somehow, but I don't know how to use it. It's like my whole education. Poof."

"Oh my…"

"Yes, so I can't hold down a job. No one wants to hire me. I'm essentially a muggle, you know? And no one, ah, no one wants to teach me anything, either. I mean, I don't blame them." I look out the window, aiming for a wistful look. "I just—" I put my hands to my eyes like I'm wiping tears. "I wish I was able to put a roof over our heads, you know?"

She puts her hand on mine again. I peek and her eyes are glazed. I wipe mine with a napkin and take a breath. "Where did you go to school?" she askes. "In the States?"

I shrug, because, honestly, who the fuck can tell.

"And how long have you been in Romania, did you say?"

I shake my head for what seems like the hundredth time this morning. "I just woke up here one day."

And that's the unbelievable, mother-flipping truth.


	2. Wait, Didn't You Die?

"Greta?"

I mumble, turning my head.

"Greta. It's nearly dinnertime."

I jump up. "Viggo!"

"He's fine. He's safe. Fed, changed. The children are playing with him now, see?" She points out the window and Viggo is between Fiona and Aspen. The big kids are throwing a toy dragon to one another, but a dragon that beats its wings and roars between hands. Viggo is enraptured. My breath returns and I focus once more on Anja and stifle a groan upon the realization that I'm still in bat-shit-crazy Potterland.

Jesus, why did I sleep so long? I remember talking more with Anja when she pushed me into this snug armchair. And I must've passed out right in the middle of our conversation. Before I can apologize, she speaks.

"I've organized some arrangements for you."

"Arrangements?" My voice sounds like it belongs to a toad.

"Yes. I've a friend over at the cafeteria who needs an extra pair of hands. One of his assistants will re-teach you some basic magic on breaks. And there's an opening in one of the smaller dormitories. They're usually reserved for dragon keepers and the like, but we're a bit short this season, and so you're welcome to stay there until we figure something else out."

"Thank you," I whisper.

"My wife's here so I can accompany you to the cabin. Why don't we get little Viggo, do some shopping, and get you all settled."

I nod, and this time, my tears are real.

x

Romania is beautiful. I don't have much time to give it the attention it deserves, but what little I do see of it here and there, between windows and doorways, practically takes my breath away. I know Jersey has its foothills, but there are honest-to-God mountains here, with snowcaps and everything. I congratulate my brain. I mean, if I'm going to have an extended hallucination, it may as well be pretty.

"This is where you'll be staying. Unfortunately, the cafeteria is only open for breakfast and lunch, so I can't show you your work tonight. But you have a floo open to it. You do know how to use a floo, yes?"

I give a nod, tightening my lips. I mean, what the frick am I supposed to say to that? Yeah, Anja, I've read the books and written a great deal of fanfic, so, yeah, I have a pretty good idea on floo transportation.

"They know you have Viggo. My friend won't like him in the kitchens, but he's going to have to be patient while we work on finding suitable childcare."

I nearly choke. Suitable childcare? As in, I have to leave my son with a stranger in this crazy-ass fairy-land that should only exist in a series of seven books? Fat fucking chance. I decide not to mention this to Anja, however.

"Okay," Anja says, surveying the room. "Bedroom, living area, kitchen, bathroom. It's not much, but—"

"It's perfect," I say. "Really. I don't understand why you're being so kind to me."

Anja pauses, like she's choosing her next words very carefully. "I lost my sister to the War," she says. I feel a twinge of guilt. "When I heard your story, I couldn't only think of her. Perhaps it's selfish of me, but if she is out there somewhere, like you—" she wipers her eyes with her sleeve. "If someone found her, I'd want them to treat her the same."

"That's not selfish," I whisper.

Anja smiles. "Let's unload these groceries, shall we?"

x

After I get Viggo to sleep, I curl up with the book she left me. _Spell Casting for Dummies_. She apologized for the title, but honestly, it's entirely accurate. I have my wand by my side, in case I feel the need to begin practicing. But instead, I fall asleep with the book in my lap open to one of the first pages. I'm not sure I even make it past the table of contents, because, at one in the morning, I awaken with a jolt to what sounds like a congregation of howling coyotes—causing me to lose my book spot.

I look out the window to see a few figures walking up to my neighbor's porch. I narrow my eyes to make out details. Men. No, there's a woman. But mostly men. I can see even with all these shadows that they're all rather large, tall, muscular. One's really loud, laughing like a hyena who's taken several hits of some really janky crack. He's the easiest to spot, with hair that looks bright as red campfire in the porch light. He's hitting one of the poles of the porch as he chortles, which causes even my cabin to rattle.

"Jesus," I say when Viggo stirs and cries out. I get back in bed and rub his back, listening to those assholes laugh like they're choking up their guts for a half hour more. Sometime after that, I go back to sleep.

x

I'm awakened with the buzzing of my phone. It takes me a few seconds to reorient myself. Right, right. Still this bed, covered in green and blue flannel blankets. Still this sweet, if rickety, cabin. Still barking mad. Check, check and check.

I pull the blankets over Viggo and tiptoe to the kitchen. I have about an hour to get ready for work, whatever the heck that's going to entail.

Anja had brought over some clothing. Apparently, her wife and I look to be the same size, but she performed a spell to make things adjust to my body, if necessary. I change into some boot-cut khakis and a tank top. I top it with a hunter green hoodie and slip on my boots, the ones I wore when this whole shit show started. Anja said I wouldn't need robes for kitchen work, which I'm fine with, since wizarding robes are ugly as fuck.

Next, breakfast. I devour a fruit and nut bar. Anja said she'd come by later to teach me how to work the magical kitchen system, so I don't even bother with investigating it. I check my phone. Shit. A half hour's already passed.

I run into the bathroom, which, thank the Lord, looks normal. After peeing, I groan when I glance at the mirror. It looks like I saturated my hair with clay, and then lit the clay on fire. I manage to get it in a long braid, grabbing a blue handkerchief out of Viggo's diaper bag and tying it around my head. I brush my teeth with Superb Sparkling Paste, wincing at the rosemary flavor.

I find an old lipstick in my purse. At least that wasn't stolen, I guess. I stare at it for a moment, wondering if I should even bother. Sighing, I realize if the wizarding world is even half as superficial as the real one, I probably should try. I smudge some of the burgundy over my mouth with my finger, making it more of a light stain. Then I do the same to my cheeks.

There. Now I only look half-dead.

I dress Viggo quickly, get an oat cereal bar in him and approach the fireplace. I inhale slowly. This should be easy, right? At least, they make it look that way in the movies. I grab a handful of the fine, glittery ash in the box on the mantel, tossing it, saying very clearly, "The Cafeteria!"

As I step into the fireplace (with my every instinct telling me to take my baby and run the hell away from the flames), I nearly fall over when, without any particularly unusual sensation, we're now inside a large room filled with tables.

"Holy shit," I whisper, looking around.

Suddenly, a tall, skinny man with wavy, grey hair rushes out of some double doors. "Annette," he's saying. "I told you, I'm not going to spend an extra twenty minutes trying to crack tunatia eggs. We'll stick to regular bloody chicken, and if they hate it, that's too bad."

"But Brian!" A voice calls from a window which opens to what looks like the kitchen. "The tunatia's supposed to be a great deal tastier. They might complain less!"

"I don't—" Brian stops when he sees me. "You, you, you. You're the girl with amnesia."

I cough.

"Oh, is she here?" Annette steps out of the doors, long and willowy in a violet dress, her hair dusted with silver. "Oh, hello, dear!" She walks up and offers me a hug. "And who is this?"

"He's Viggo," I say, barely above a whisper. "I'm Greta. Nice to meet you."

"Come this way. Greta, you said? Oh, I love the name Margaret. I think I have a great-great-great aunt, once removed, named Margaret. I'm Annette, by the way. That's Brian. He's a grumpy sod, that's what he is."

Brian huffs and rolls his eyes. "Just give her something to do. And don't forget to put a protective barrier spell around the kid!" he yells as Annette pulls me into the kitchen.

x

"Okay," Annette says. "Are you any good at chopping?"

I nod. "But I have to do it the muggle way."

"Of course, of course. Well, let's get started."

She gives me some knives and I cut up a great deal of bacon. "Brian's a cheap bastard." She says it so cheerily. "Constantly trying to cut corners. Instead of everyone getting full bacon pieces, he's mixing a lesser amount into the eggs. It's no wonder they're constantly complaining."

She whips up the eggs and bacon over the iron caldrons which hover over a fire. "How about toast?"

"Uh—" I look around for a toaster.

"Just set out about thirty pieces, dear. I'll do the rest."

I arrange the bread slices, one by one, on a platter. Annette's trying to be polite, but she hovers over me, waving her wand before I can even get the last slice on. In an instant, the bread is toasted. She waves it again, and a dozen butter knives march over, spreading butter all of their own accord.

"Mama?" Viggo's running up, pointing at the bouncy ball that Annette's spelled to bounce back into his hands. "Blue?"

"Of course!" Annette points her wand at the ball, and the red of it bleeds to a bright, cobalt blue. Viggo resumes his game.

"And now we have the muffins, the biscuits, the biscotti. Will you place these on the buffet tables?"

I nod, grabbing the bread baskets and placing them on the long trays floating in front of the window between the kitchens and the dining hall. As soon as I fill one, it whisks itself away. Like fucking magic.

She has me place platters of eggs and bacon, waffles, pancakes, condiments until all the trays are full.

"Why don't you have a seat in the back, dear?"

"Hmm?" I furrow my brow.

"Just through that door. Have a break, okay? Take a moment with your boy."

I nod, gritting my teeth. As the morning's progressed, it's become utterly clear that I'm just cramping Annette's style with my slowness. God, I hate feeling useless. But I sigh and grab Viggo, pushing through the door.

The windows are wall-sized, just like in the dining hall, and they open to the expanse of the spruce forest around us. In the distance, there are those gorgeous mountains, their tops so white, it hurts to look directly at them.

I set Viggo down and collapse on a love seat, my head in my hands. How did I get here? And more importantly, how the hell do I get out?

"Hey, Greta. Your tutor's here." I don't even respond to Brian's gruff bark of words. After he stomps away, the door closes so softly, I barely hear the click of the latch.

"Ms. Riverstone." The man's voice is low. Deeper than gravel. And yet somehow smooth.

I grunt in response. I refuse to look up to see what fuckery my mind has conjured now, no matter how pretty he sounds.

"I wasn't informed there'd be… a child."

I peek through my fingers just to make sure Viggo's still near me. He's obviously wary of the man, holding the ball to his chest, staring ahead.

"Are you incapable of speech as well as sight?"

Finally, I glance up at him. And choke back a gasp.

He wears an outfit of dark, earthy brown, right down to his boots. His hair isn't as long nor as greasy as I'd pictured. His nose, yes. Large and hooked. But without the black, without the grease, I'm pretty sure I'd recognize this fucker anywhere.

But Severus Snape _died_. That's an indisputable canon-sourced fact. Which means… fuck. I bury my face in my hands again.

"Ms. Riverstone, during our lessons, I insist that you, at the very least, look at me. I'm a very busy and…" he pauses, drawing out the 'd' with a tap of his tongue. "Impatient man."

If Snape's alive, then there's only one explanation. "I'm stuck inside a fanfic," I blurt, glancing up at him again.

He barely raises an eyebrow. "Ah. She speaks." He has a seat at the small breakfast nook in the middle of the room, gesturing for me to take the other chair.

I push myself up, taking my time. Viggo's right behind me, his hand clutching my pant leg. I know I look dull, walking to the table as slow as one might crawl to the guillotine. But I need to strategize. If I'm inside a fanfic… anything could happen. Veela. Werewolves. Massive amounts of raunchy, magic sex. The possibilities are, quite literally, endless.

"Any century now," Snape drawls, not even trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. I drag the chair open and plop down, pulling Viggo into my lap.

"Mrs. Doleson has informed me of your… predicament."

"Doleson?"

"Anja… Doleson."

I take a breath. Best just play along for now. Until I figure out the rules of this particular story. "Anja told me a kitchen assistant would be teaching me magic."

"We determined I would be the most… efficient… tutor for the time being." He looks though he would rather be doing anything else, giving a wince when Viggo whines.

"Here, sweet pea," I say, throwing the enchanted ball. "Play." Mercifully, the self-returning ball has not yet lost its appeal.

"First I need to ask a few questions." He lingers on the 's,' giving me the distinct impression of a coiled serpent.

"Okay."

"Do you sing?"

I blink. Wow, that's not what I was expecting.

"Do you need me to repeat myself?"

Oh, how I want to curse him out. Instead, I shake my head.

"Answer the question, Ms. Riverstone."

"I _can_ sing," I begin, but he cuts me off.

"If you a singer, Ms. Riverstone, is what I am asking. Not if it's possible for you to sing."

"No, then. I'm not a singer." He narrows his eyes just a touch, like he knows I'm lying. Which I'm not. Not really.

"Where is your wand?"

I reach over my shoulder, where I've tucked it along my back, in my bra. He snatches it from me before I can even think of anything to say.

He pulls his hands over the wand, his fingers on each end. "Twelve and a half inches in length." He puts it to his nose, flaring his nostrils. "Aspen. With a core of phoenix feather." Finally, he makes like he's going to break it, but stops just short. "Unbending flexibility." He places it on the table, leaning back. "Nothing… extraordinary."

I stare at the wand. It's good-looking, I guess. A little crooked, but I like the round bead-like-ball carved as the length transitions to the handle. And you know what? It's a wand. It's pretty fecking extraordinary to me.

"We'll start with something elementary. Levitation." He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a quill. "Wave your wand over it while stating, _wingardium leviosa_."

I grab the wand, glancing at Viggo as he tries to break the window with the ball. " _Wingardium leviosa_ ," I say, waving.

Nothing happens. Snape looks like someone's forced him to drink rotted prune juice. "Again."

" _Wingardium leviosa_." Nope. " _Wingardium leviosa!_ " This time, I do it with a theatrical finish, but that, too, has no effect on the quill.

"Just as I suspected," Snape says, wrenching the wand from my hands. "You, Ms. Riverstone stumbled upon the wizarding world by pure happenstance, likely, and thought you might be able to take advantage of our…" he grimaced. "…kindnesses." He stands, his cloak snapping behind him. "Ms. Riverstone, if that is, indeed, your name, you… are… an imposter, a liar, an obvious and careless dunderhead. As well as a _muggle_." He stretches the word out like he's giving me some terrible news, but honestly, I half-expected as much.

"Okay," I say. "Now what?"

"Now, I'm afraid I must…" he pulls his wand from his coat.

"Obliviate me?" I scrunch my nose. "That's a bit excessive, isn't it?"

"It is the only solution."

I shrug my shoulders as he raises his wand towards my head. I mean, maybe this will send me back to sound mental health. I'll be back in my apartment, living my normal, shitty life. And no longer hallucinating. That last bit, at least, would be an improvement.

"Alright," I say. "Just make sure, if you can, I don't have to see that top hat guy ever again. He creeped me the hell out."

Snape lowers his wand. "I beg your pardon?"

"Top hat guy? Tall, fancy suit. Bug eyes. Walks like he's got snakes for legs."

Snape looks alarmed. I mean, his eyes widen slightly, which, for him, means he must be flippin' terrified. "Where did you see this… gentleman?"

I snort. "'Gentleman's a bit of a stretch, dude, no matter how nice he was dressed. And I saw him near my bus stop. There was this psychotic old woman who said she was a witch, then he was there, running at me like he was gonna cut me into little pieces for stew or something." I sigh. "I hid in some bushes with my son, and when we woke up, viola! We're here."

Snape's eyes are narrowed. "I don't believe you."

I throw up my hands. "Can't you, like, read my mind? See for yourself."

"Very well."

He puts his wand down, looking directly into my eyes. At first, nothing feels different. But then, it's like he's running his fingers in my thoughts, strumming like each were the strings to an enormous, rather fucked-up guitar. I follow his wanderings. There, the bus stop. The moon, curled and hung between clouds. The arroz con pollo. The old woman. And finally, the last musical pluck, the top hat man, his gaze lingering over me, his face lighting up like he'd found his next meal.

Knowing it's just a memory doesn't stop my shiver, and before I'm finished, Snape's pacing along the window. Viggo looks up, startled and runs to me, crying, "Mama!" I scoop him into my arms.

"Who knows your story, Ms. Riverstone, besides me and Mrs. Doleson?"

"Um. Annette and Brian, I th—"

"Anyone else?" Fuck, this guy has an annoying habit of barely letting me finish my sentence.

"No."

"Make certain that doesn't change." With that, he sweeps his cloak to the side as he reaches for the door. "Tomorrow, Ms. Riverstone. We will resume your tutelage."

"So I'm not a muggle."

Snape stares out the window. "It appears, perhaps… not." Then the door shuts fast but gently, making almost no noise at all.


	3. The New Girl

When I walk with Viggo back into the kitchens, through the wall window, I can see that I've missed the breakfast patrons. Which is too bad, as I was curious as to who'd show up—especially now that I know it could be anyone, really.

"Greta! Is it true? Professor Snape is to be your tutor?" Annette appears from the corner, startling me, which I hide well.

"I guess so," I say, shifting Viggo to my other hip. "You need help with anything?"

"Oh, well. Let me think. Perhaps you could sweep up the dining hall?"

"Sure." She transfigures Viggo's blue ball to a small, wooden carriage that rolls all around him. I grab the broom she hands me and get to it.

There's a young woman tapping her foot near the double doors as I walk out. She looks so irritated, I ask, "Need something?"

"Brian," she says. "Who are you?"

"I'm nobody," I say and walk around her to the corner of the room, angling the broom out.

"Sounds about right," she mutters.

I give her a look between sweeps. She's cute. Honey blonde hair cut into a choppy bob. Tan and really pretty large brown eyes. And little, barely over five feet. Though, as soon as Brian pushes through the doors, her voice is so sharp, she seems about three feet taller instantly.

"Eggs and tiny pieces of meat. Again. What's that, the sixth morning in a row?"

"Jesus Christ, Rune. I'm on a budget, here. What do you want?"

"Variety. Vegetables! Legitimate slices of bacon. Is that too much to bloody ask?!"

Brian waves her off, but she shakes her head violently. "I'm this close to writing up another grievance, Brian. Can you afford that?"

He freezes, his thin mouth moving to an even thinner, tight line.

"That's what I thought. Do. Better." She stalks off, and even though she must weigh eighty pounds, her boots seem to shake the floor.

"Christ," Brian says. "Can't please these gluten-free fools. They act like I need to prepare them their own bloody meal, like I haven't got anything better to do."

I look up from my sweeping, frozen.

"And of course," he continues, "One thinks they're gluten-intolerant, they all do. I'm up to five now that Weasley's joined the ignoramus bandwagon."

"I can do it," I say.

"What?" He winces. "No, no. I only meant for you to just listen to my babble."

"No," I say. "I mean it. I have celiac. I can't eat gluten. And for, like three years I worked as a sous chef at my favorite gluten-free restaurant in the city. I mean, in New York City."

"Sous chef, huh?" He eyes me warily. "Then what the fuck were you doing homeless?"

"Well," I retort with just as much attitude, "I got pregnant. And as it turns out, vomiting every thirty minutes isn't a desirable trait in the kitchen. Or any job, for that matter."

He pauses, licking his lips. Finally, he barks, "Follow me."

I grab Viggo and we push through the double doors. He leads me down a hallway and we enter a room. It has a wall window with a glass door that displays a lovely collection of Christmas-like trees with ferns and moss growing at their roots. There's even a bench just outside where I can envision peacefully drinking tea. I set Viggo down with his little carriage.

"Here," Brian says, pointing to what appears to be a gas range. "You know how to work this?"

"Sure," I say. I put my hands between the burners, where it gives off a little heat. "The pilot light's on, so yeah. Easy enough."

"And this thing?" He points to a large fridge. I open it and am hit with musky, warm air. "Uh—we gotta plug it in." I search the walls and find an outlet. After pushing the plug in, the fridge chokes to life.

"You get electricity here?" I say, pushing myself back up.

He shrugs. "Some of the muggleborns like putting their light-up-screens on while they eat." He puts his hands on his hips. "You'll need some pans. All I have is cast-iron."

"Wouldn't dream of asking for anything else."

"Good. You've tomorrow. If you can manage breakfast and lunch and a dessert for five with no complaints from those arseholes—you got yourself a gig."

I swallow. "I'll need supplies."

"Annette's going shopping tonight. You tag along, then. Think you can stick to a budget?"

I snort. "My son and I've been spending the last three years counting pennies. I can stick to a budget."

"Good. Now get to work cleaning this dung hole."

x

I insist on eating before cleaning the 'muggle kitchen,' since it's nearing lunchtime and Viggo howls when he sees the ham sandwiches Annette's preparing. After that, I spend all of the lunch hour scrubbing crud off the range and inside the oven, and then wiping down every surface in and outside the fridge. I open the cabinets and thank the Lord that they're relatively clean, save for an old bottle of Xtra-Strength Sparkly Cake Dust, whatever the hell that is. I toss it in the trash and grab the little rug in front of the sliding door. "You stay in this room," I say to Viggo. "I'll be right here. You can see me right through the glass, okay?" He doesn't even look up from his carriage toy, which has now been charmed to do somersaults.

I drape the rug on the bench and grab the largest stick I can find within a few feet. I grip it like it's a baseball bat and start hitting it. I don't know how old this rug is, but layers of dried mud and filth fly off of it in chunks and smoke.

God. For the second time today, I ask myself, what the fuck am I doing. "What," I mutter with a hit. "The fuck." Smack. "Am." Smack. "I." Smack. "Doing." I hit it as hard as I can, and the stick breaks right in half, sending a piece flying into the trees.

"Scourgify."

I turn and see that redheaded beefcake that kept my kid up half the night with his homicidal laughter.

"Come again?" I glare.

"Scourgify. You know." He mimes like he's waving a wand. "It'll get the job done quite a bit more quickly. And less…" He grins. "Violently."

"Dude," I say. "Fuck off." His mouth drops open as I turn and whip open the door, snatching the rug on my way in. Before I shut it, I hear him cackling. Idiot.

x

Grocery shopping isn't half bad. I have to stop myself from gawking at the magical produce and spells around, but Viggo, slung to me by another one of Annette's wonderspells, is so engrossed by it all, he fights through his naptime. By the time we return to our cabin at the end of the day, we're both exhausted. He falls asleep as soon as I feed him leftovers from the kitchen for dinner. I adjust him in the bed, piling pillows all around so he doesn't fall off.

"Greta?" Anja's soft voice drifts down from the fireplace.

"Hey," I say, walking in as she brushes off the floo powder.

"Hi, there. I just spoke with the Professor."

I collapse onto the sofa. "Snape, you mean?"

"Yes. He seems to think you may be in some mild danger. Nothing to worry about, really. But he reiterated to me that no one else can know your, ah, circumstances."

I nod glumly as she glances around the room. She gives me a small smile. "You're not going to ask why he thinks you're in danger?"

I give a half shrug. "Yeah. I'm just tired." And, we're in a freakin' fanfic, lady, so, I don't care half as much as I would if I were given this ominous news in the real world.

"You heard about the Azkaban break a couple weeks back, right?"

I mean, I saw the paper's headline. So I nod.

"It appears these Death Eaters are looking for someone. Now, the Professor doesn't think that you are necessarily this someone, but he does think that at least one of the Death Eaters thinks you are. Which is enough for me to ask you to please, do not wander anywhere except here and the kitchens, unless you are accompanied by me, Brian, Annette or the Professor."

"Sure," I say.

"Right," Anja says. "Let me show you how to cook with just a bit of floo powder. You just—" she grabs about a teaspoon of the powder. "And flick it over the pit, here, in the kitchen." Flames appear instantly as she walks over and does it. "Don't worry about putting it out—it will all on its own."

"Thanks," I say, eyeing the flames warily.

"I better get going," she says, grabbing her stuff. "This is for you." She hands me a shopping bag. "I'll be back this weekend to check in, okay? If you need anything, let Annette or the Professor know."

"Yeah," I say. She grabs some floo powder, but before she tosses it, I say, "Anja?"

She pauses, glancing back at me.

"What's his name?"

"Name…"

"The name of the Death Eater who thinks I'm someone I'm not?"

"Oh." She inhales. "That one's name is Barty Crouch. Junior."

"Really?" I widen my eyes. "But I thought… didn't he get the Dementor's kiss, like, ages ago?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "We all thought that."

Well, that plot development is little unusual, for a fanfic. But rather than ponder it too long, I just nod and we say our goodbyes.

After she leaves, I manage to make some eggs with a bit of effort, since floo flames are a bit unpredictable. As I eat, I glance in the bag she left me and nearly scream with relief. I pull out the products, one by one. Shampoo, conditioner, lotion. Soap! And, thank all the gods in all religions—hair product. I basically sprint into the shower without even a thought on the dirty dishes I leave behind.

I wrap my hair in a towel and am just about to get into bed when I hear a weird cry outside somewhere.

"Shit," I say, thinking of Top Hat Man's crazy bug eyes. I edge to the window, where I slide a finger over the curtain, pulling it just a touch.

A shriek comes next. I look around, holding my breath, until I see the redhead beefcake, sitting on the porch of the neighbor's cabin, a long brunette wrapped around him like a corn husk over a tamale. They're both staring towards the walkway, so I look over and see… is that Rune? Yes, it sure as fuck is. She's got her hands on her hips and she's yelling something. Seems like her M.O.

I crack the window.

"And now you're getting ready to fuck her on your porch? Like you don't even have the decency to take these bints inside anymore? Knowing I live right across the bloody path?"

Oh, man. Like I needed another reason to hate this guy. As I'm closing the window, Lanky Brunette gives Beefcake a loud slap across the face. I chuckle and get to sleep in an unusually good mood.

x

I get in the kitchen early the next morning, even before Annette or Brian arive. From experience, I know things take way longer than they should the first time in any new job. And, despite this entire endeavor being fictional, I don't want to fuck up and one of few things I'm good at.

Viggo's snoring in my arms, so I lay him on a pillow near the window—as far as possible away from the range and oven. And I get to work.

After getting some black beans on a simmer, I chop up tomatoes, onions, jalapenos and a handful of cilantro leaves. I gather the whole mess into a bowl, squeezing in some lime with a grind of salt and pepper.

I heat up one of Brian's cast-iron pans with oil until it's shy of smoking and drop a cut of flank steak in it, searing each side for two minutes. After the its skin caramelizes, I drop it in a bowl, covering it. I toss in some spinach and red peppers in the beef fat, adding the eggs as soon as the spinach wilts. I scramble very carefully, with the heat as low as it can go. Overcooked eggs are one of the worst things on the planet.

"Mama?"

"Shit," I say, dropping a hot iron lid on my wrist. "Yes, baby?"

"Hungy."

I hand him a cereal bar and a couple little car toys, praying to God that's enough for ten minutes of peace. He seems sleepy enough to be happy with that, so I dress the plates as fast as I can. Beans, eggs, about a palm's size of steak. Pico de gallo. Sliced avocado, sour cream, shredded cheese on the side. I roll three tortillas together, placing them seam-down next to the meat. And finally, I cut cilantro over the whole spectacle, dotting it with the pretty curled leaves.

I take just a moment to breathe when Annette runs in. "Greta! You're a just little bit late and Brian's—"

She's cut off by his gruff barks. "Where the hell—" he stops, staring at my plates, breathing heavily. "Steak?! How the fuck did you get steak on the budget?"

"Look," I say. "If you have a variety of foods, some expensive—" I gesture to the steak, "and some not, like the beans, you can do this on a budget. There's no big portions of any one thing, but together, it's a lot of food."

"Hmph," he says grumpily. "What's this called, anyway?"

I smile. "Breakfast tacos."

"Well, let's get this out there. Get the two dragon tamers' plates, will you?"

"But my son is—"

"You're getting paid by the hour, Riverstone."

"Here," Annette says, waving her wand over Viggo. "Protective barrier. And—" she transfigures his cars until they've got enormous, monster-truck wheels. When they spin by themselves, Viggo shrieks in joy. "He can't leave the room," she promises.

"Fine," I sigh. "Let's get this over with, then."

I want to ask Brian why he can't levitate the two plates like he does with the other three, but he seems so invested in hating me, I decide to not give him any more motivation. "Those are for Rune and Weasley," he grunts. "They're over there." Before I can say anything, he's off to the other side of the dining hall.

Weasley. I scan my brain, straining to remember Potter plot points from the book. Did Ron have a brother who worked with dragons? Yes, I want to say. Which book was it, again? Fuck. I wonder if I could get wifi out here and look this shit up. It's been way too long.

I look over to where Brian had pointed and spot the Beefhead table immediately. Namely, because all the men are all enormous. Their biceps bulge out of their t-shirts. There's one, two, three women, too, including Rune, who are also lean and cut. Guess keeping dragons must require Navy SEAL training or some shit like that.

As soon as I approach, several of the mens' heads whip my way, their faces lighting up. "Hey, it's you," Redhead says.

I ignore him. "Rune," I say, handing her the plate.

She grimaces at me until she looks down at her food. "Holy shit."

"Weasley?"

"Ah, that'd be me." Red—Weasley, which I should've guessed, really—reaches his giant, long arm across the table. I hand off the plate.

"Hey!" a blonde man gapes at their food. "Why the fuck do you two get a special meal?"

"It's gluten-free, you dolt," Rune says before taking a large bite of steak and moaning. "Fuck, this is good. Did you make this?" She looks at me and I give a noncommittal humming noise.

"Well, I think I'm gluten-free now," the man response, and there's a great deal of grunting and laughing after that.

I turn to leave, but a brunette beefcake grabs my arm. "Hold on there, love. We haven't been properly introduced."

I shrug his hand away. "I'm busy."

"Too busy to give us a name?"

Before he's finished speaking, I've walked away. I roll my eyes and scoff as the others slap his back and cackling like shrieking bats.

x

After getting food in me and Viggo, I get to work immediately on lunch's dessert option. It's not the fanciest thing, but I figured cookies would do the trick. I mix the sugar, almond butter, vanilla extract and eggs, then get them on the oven sheet. While they're baking, I prepare the salad for lunch.

As I chop baby kale and spinach, Brian appears, announcing his presence with a grunt. "The tacos were an all-around hit."

"Good," I say, not looking up.

"Look," he says. "I wasn't gonna mention anything before, but now that you're actually doing valuable work…" He cracks his knuckles.

I snort. Well, he's not wrong.

"Heard you swore at Weasley yesterday."

Now I look up. "Yeah?"

He's got his arms crossed with a raised eyebrow. "I just wanted to tell you…" he sighs, leaning back on the edge of the counter. "Good job. Keep that shite up."

I furrow my brow. "Really?"

"Those dragon keepers are veritable pains in my arse. I've hired a half dozen witches to help me and Annette in the last two years, and they're all gone. The lot of them. Damned keepers are fucking lady killers."

"Lady killers?"

"Indeed, Riverstone. They're whores. Just 'cause they're ripped to high heaven, they think they can fuck anything with legs. Which, apparently, is all they do in their free time. And afterward, I'm just left with weeping witches, leaving for home long before their two weeks' notice is up."

"Why don't you hire men, then?"

He snorts. "I did. They were worse than the women."

I grab a handful of strawberries. "Well, Brian. If you want me to treat the dragon tamers like shit, I can say with full confidence that I will not hold back."

"Good girl."

Annette's got Viggo "helping" her clean spoons in the 'wizard kitchen,' so I can fry up lunch even quicker. I'm plating when who should show up but Exhibit A of Beefcake Whoredom, Dragon Tamer Weasley.

"Hey," he says, sauntering in. I barely glance up, but I keep him in the edge of my vision.

"Need something?" I finally ask.

He's ogling the salad I'm spreading out. "So you are the new cook."

I don't respond.

He puts his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to say, breakfast was bloody brilliant. Rune and I haven't eaten anything half as tasty here in quite a while. We were beginning to think we'd have to cancel our food plan."

I make a noise halfway between a hum and a clearing of the throat, mixing up my homemade sriracha chipotle dipping sauce in a bowl.

After a bit, he keeps talking. "So, what's for lunch today?"

"Fish and chips."

"Fish and chips?! Are you fucking kidding?" I glance up at him as he puts his hands on his heart. "Marry me. Seriously. I need a woman in my kitchen that can do this, you know. Gluten-free."

Jesus Christ. Brian didn't need to warn me away from these assholes. Turns out, they seem to do a great job of it all on their own.

I grab the pan of fish and spoon the filets to the plates.

"My mum knows quite a lot of kitchen spells," he says, watching me. "I could ask her, you know, about serving ones. Make it easier on—" He stops suddenly. "Wait, are you a _squib_?"

He sounds so incredulous, I jerk my head up. His eyes are widened and he's looking at me up and down like I've sprouted fur and claws.

"What the hell does it matter?" I grab the salad bowl.

"It doesn't," he says quickly, but the tone in his voice suggests otherwise. I give him a glare as I spoon the dipping sauce in the center of the plate. "It's just— I never thought a squib, could, you know…"

When I look up from distributing the chips, his face is bright red. "What?"

"Be so pretty," he blurts.

"Really," I say. "Is that what they taught you at Hogwarts? That all squibs are as attractive as trolls?"

Now even his ears are red. "No, no. I've only known squibs that are… rather…"

I shove two plates in his hands. "These are for you and Rune, alright?" I grab the other three, positioning them on my arm like an expert server and walk out toward the dining hall.

After serving two dragonologists' and a potioneer their meals, I glance over at the Mesa de Beefcakes. Weasley's face is still pink and I can tell he's trying not to look at me. Good. Maybe he'll leave me alone now.


	4. Mary Sue, or Mary Sue Not?

After settling a napping Viggo into a bed Annette transfigured for me, I collapse onto the floor, face down. Jesus. I'm only working on five meals at a time and my arms are so sore, they want to fall off. I know it's been a while since I've cooked like this, but fuck. I'm going to have beefcake biceps pretty soon. Maybe I can challenge Weasley to an arm wrestle in about a week.

I'm still chuckling about the absurdity of that idea when I feel the swish of the door open and barely-discernible footsteps walk around me. "Ms. Riverstone," a rice, bass-like voice greets me. "Upon our meeting yesterday, I'd presumed you'd have a weak resolve. Yet I didn't anticipate your capitulation to arrive so soon."

I groan and join him at the breakfast nook. Maybe I should try this time. I smile at Snape. "Good day, Professor."

He gives me a glare. "Take out your wand."

He instructs me to try three different spells with absolutely no results whatsoever. After the last one, he leans back in his hair, hissing through his teeth with his arms crossed. I suspect at least some of his reaction is exaggerated.

"Would you like some tea, Professor?"

"No. What I would like is for you to give this lesson at least a speck of effort, at the very least, to convince me I'm not wasting my invaluable… time."

I stand. "Tea will help me concentrate." I fill the kettle with water at the sink. "So, Professor, what are you doing in Romania?"

I assume he's going to ignore me when he finally responds. "I run the potions laboratory."

"Really." I place a tea bag in a oatmeal-colored mug. "Why here, though?"

He gives a long, laborious exhale. "Here on the reservation, I have access to the freshest dragonian materials for my… experiments."

"Cool, cool." I pour the water over my tea. "Why didn't that Nagini bite kill you, again?"

It takes him at least a full minute. "Minerva McGonagall discovered me… in time."

"Who else is alive?" I ask. I pour the milk in my mug, stirring, and then return the jug to the fridge. "Let me get more specific," I say, sitting. "Is Fred Weasley dead?"

He narrows his eyes. "Yes."

Shit. What kind of monster writes Potter fanfic and doesn't change that abysmal fact? "What about Tonks and Remus? They're gone, too?"

He gives a brisk nod.

"Damn. I never understood why they both had to die, you know? I mean, I would've been about sixteen times happier if Teddy had one parent to raise him. Plus they were both so cool."

His mouth is pulled into a thin line. "War isn't fair, Ms. Riverstone."

"Nor life. Right?" I take a sip of tea. "What about Black?"

His eyes harden, finally landing on mine.

"Sirius Black? Is he still alive or—?"

"It would have been much more fortunate if Black hadn't survived the War, Ms. Riverstone. As it stands, he… lives."

My mouth drops open. "What? Sirius Black is alive?" Snape's eyes drop to my grin. "You don't understand, Professor. He's my favorite. Since forever." I laugh. "Well, shit. Does he ever visit the reserve?"

Snape's jaw is flexed so hard, I wonder if it's cramping. "Black's… career… gives him the deplorable opportunity to grace us with his presence every so often. Why." The last word is spat out.

I shrug. "Oh, I don't know. Do you think he'd be down to fu…" Snape raises an eyebrow. I can't bring myself to finish the phrase, so I say, instead, "Is he hot?"

Snape stands. "Our lesson concludes, Ms. Riverstone."

"I'm only asking because you are, like, way hotter than I thought you'd be."

Snape coughs. And chokes. After clearing his voice a few times, he utters, "You haven't discussed your… predicament with anyone, as discussed?"

"No," I say. "But one of the dragon keepers won't leave me alone. He thinks I'm a Squib."

"Ah," Snape says. "That's a fair pretense, given your utter hopelessness at magic. Continue letting him—and others—believe your Squibhood, then." Before he leaves, he turns. "I won't let you consume my indispensible time and energy again until you've mastered a child's standard of wand work, Ms. Riverstone. Ms. Doleson has informed me she's lent you a book for your particular intelligence level." I scowl. "Tell her to inform me when you've managed five spells."

With that, he's gone, silent as a spook.

x

After Viggo's fed, washed, and in bed with new-old pajamas from a bag of clothes Annette had brought me (apparently, she has, like, three-hundred grandchildren), I sit down in the cabin with a cup of tea and _Spell Casting for Dummies_ by Aloysius Snuffleupagus (not really, but may as well be.)

First, there's a chapter on what magic is. "Bla, bla, bla," I say, flipping past it. There's another chapter on the history of spell work, and after a lengthy interlude on types of magic, I finally make it to a list of spells.

" _Accio_ parchment," I say, pointing my wand to the diaper bag across the room. It doesn't even rustle.

Next I try making water appear in my Nagia water bottle. It remains empty.

Aaand I give up.

Was magic this hard in the books? I seem to remember it coming so naturally to Harry et al., they were doing it unintentionally as babies or something. Hell. Maybe I am a muggle.

Fuck, I _am_ a muggle. Or, rather, a non-magical being where magic _doesn't_ exist. Somewhere in the real world, where I'm likely knocked unconscious. I briefly wonder if, in this dream state I'm in, that days are passing at the speed of milliseconds back home, and eventually, I'll literally wake up right when it all started. Me and Viggo at the bus stop.

Hopefully, Top Hat isn't there.

I grab the parchment that I'd borrowed from Brian's office and sit down with not a quill, but a Sharpie pen I found in my purse. How well the two symbolize my current mind-fuck is not lost on me.

But, whatever. I need to figure some shit out about this story I'm stuck in. And since I have no access to the internet, I'm going to have to settle on list-making.

 **Mary Sue Signs**

 _1._ _Everyone wants to have sex/ falls in love/ is obsessed with me for no reason. Bonus points for love triangle._

 _2._ _People help me with no apparent motivation._

 _3._ _Sob-story._

 _4._ _I don't know how beautiful I am/ too skinny_

 _5._ _All women are jealous bitches who hate me even though (or because?) I'm the best._

 _6._ _Someone gives me a make-over. Bonus points if for a formal event._

 _7._ _Great at all the things_

 _8._ _Half-blood of something rare and great. Or secret princess. Bonus points if both._

 _9._ _Effortless multiple orgasms_

 _10._ _Asked to play "spin the bottle," "seven in heaven," or "truth or dare" at some point in the story with love triangle points present._

Review time.

Okay, so no one's fallen in love with me, but there's an inordinate amount of interest from various people. Snape, Anja. Sort of. Plus a handful of Beefcakes, but according to Brian, that's their thing, so I don't know if it counts. Probably it does, 'cause they're hot. Oh, and Barty McBugEyes is apparently looking for me, so there's that. Check.

Number two gets a big checkmark, because in less than six hours, I was hooked up with a place, a job, clothes and food. Even though Anja explained the whole bit about her sister, if I were in her place, there is no way I'd approach a creeper woman emerging from the bushes. No way.

Sob-story gets two checks. One for the real tale and one for the Death Eater one.

Four, nah. I'm no Kim Kardashian, but men gape at me with enough regularity that I'm not going to pretend I don't know I'm good-looking. As for "too skinny," I snort. I'm (sort of) toned from walking to work every day while carrying my toddler, but nearly two years ago, I pushed that ten pound chunk right out of my vag. Enough said.

Five and six, no. Seven, hmm. Everyone likes my cooking, but they do in real life, too. And I'm shit at magic, so. No check. No for Eight.

God, I wish I could check Nine. Mmm, maybe if Sirius Black visits the reserve in the near future… and as for Ten, I hope I can check it at some point, because fics with the Hogwarts kids playing Truth or Dare are my absolute favorites.

I hope to god I'm the Mary Sue of this story. 'Cause then, there's no way Bug Eyes will be able to kill me.

x

I'm bringing out dessert when I notice half the beefcakes, including Weasley, have gone already. Hmm. Whatever. I set the plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries in front of Rune and swirl back around.

"Wait! New girl!" I glance back and see a mahogany-haired woman sitting next to Rune waving.

"What's up," I say, turning toward them.

"You have any more of those almond butter cookies?"

"Um." Did Viggo finish those off? "Let me check."

In the back, I find three. "Yes," Rune breathes, grabbing the plate from my hand.

"Hey! I was the one that asked for them." The other girl's grasping, but Rune pushes the plate away.

"Fine," Rune says, handing one over. "The rest are for me."

"Is there anything else you need?" I ask, slipping my hands in my apron pockets.

"Sure," the woman says. "Have a seat."

I glance around. "I'm not really allowed—"

"Oh, sit," Rune says. "He's not going to fire you, I promise. Brian's all bark, no bite."

Since it's Friday, and I'm finished cooking, and Annette's letting Viggo "organize" spoons, I shrug and have a seat.

"I'm Natasha Sato," the dark-haired woman says. "You can call me Tasha, if you like. This is Rune."

"I'm Greta. You guys rear dragons?" I ask. I've been moderately curious about their work for a while, but I didn't want to ask while any guys were around.

"Yeah," Tasha says. "We all sort of take turns in what we do. Cleaning, feeding, breeding. Which reminds me, Rune, I need you to check Bluebell's foot for me when you do your rounds tonight."

"Ugh, do I have to? She's _such_ a bitch lately."

"I can't, though, remember—"

"Yeah, yeah. The party."

Tasha's eyes meet mine. "Hey, you should come."

I'm already shaking my head. "Come on," Tasha says. "The guys always outnumber us. And you're neighbors with Weasley, right? Well, my place is right across the walkway!"

"Will there be firewhisky?" I ask, watching Annette walk towards me from the kitchen, hand in hand with Viggo.

Rune bursts out laughing. "Will there be firewhisky," she repeats.

"What Rune is so rudely trying to say is, of course they'll be firewhisky. Likely several varieties," Tasha says, winking.

Damn. If I'm in a Potter fic, I ought to be able to try firewhisky, just once, right? But I glance at Viggo and shake my head. "Nah. I can't."

Rune and Tasha stand. "Well, if you change your mind," Tasha says. "The festivities start at eight."

"Thanks for the invite," I say. They nod and make their way out.

"That sounds like fun," Annette says as Viggo climbs in my lap.

"Yeah, it does." I like Tasha and Rune. Spending an evening drinking with them seems like it would be enjoyable.

"You should go."

"It doesn't sounds like a child-friendly thing," I say, passing Viggo one of the strawberries left behind.

"Well, this actually works out perfectly. I'm minding Genevieve and Lono tonight." I vaguely recognize those to be the names of her grandchildren. "I could bring them over to your cabin and watch them all there. Just for a couple hours."

"Hmm." I wipe Viggo's chocolate hands with a napkin. "Well, Anja says I can't go anywhere without an escort."

"Oh, I'll be right across the path. Plus you'll be surrounded by some of the swiftest, most agile witches and wizards around. You'll be fine."

"Well, okay…"

"I just need you to do me this one, wee favor, yeah?"

I glance up at her doe eyes. "What's the favor?"

She gives a sly smile. "Convince Severus Snape to take me out to dinner."

I whistle. "I'm not sure… I mean have you ever spoken to… Are you sure? Him? Really?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure. I've been trying ride that man's knob since he arrived on the reservation."

"Wow."

"I even got him to kiss me once!" I nearly choke as she continues. "He was rather tipsy at the time, but Merlin's cock, the Professor can snog."

I swallow. "Well, I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, darling." She stands. "I'll pop by floo at… let's say, seven-thirty?"

"Sure."

As she walks away, I wrap my arms around Viggo. He looks up at me, giggling. "Mama gets to try firewhisky!" I say.

"Ri-bi-key," he repeats, grinning.

x

I've got every stitch of clothing Anja gave me laid out on the bed. What the fuck does one wear to a party hosted by a fucking dragon fucking tamer? This wasn't advised in any of the books, I don't think.

I'm certain casual is the way to go. The problem is all the casual clothes she left me either have food stains or are uncomfortable. (Note to self: Ask Anja about clothes-washing this weekend). There is a deep brown dress—halter-top, long and made of linen. I hope it's alright because it's my only option.

I slip it on and am pleased to see that it cinches in right at my waist. All clothing needs adjustments spells. Forever.

I empty my purse and find a nub of black eyeliner. It'll do.

After applying my meager make-up, I smooth out the dress in front of the mirror. My hair is down, letting the Alleviate Frizz Chic Crème do its job. The liner draws attention to my dark eyes, and the dress goes well with the deep olive of my skin. All in all, I don't look half bad.

God, I hope I don't regret this.


	5. Love Triangle or Maybe Just a Line

_There's a bit of Spanish dialogue here. Translations provided at the end._

* * *

"Well, don't you look smashing," Annette says when I walk out.

"You sure I don't look like an idiot?"

"Of course not, dear. You look like you may get lucky tonight." She gives me a slow wink. "If you know what I mean." She pulls a pizza out of the oven. "Sex."

"I knew what you meant, Annette."

"Oh, good. Well, run along then. Get lucky."

I give Viggo a kiss and he returns it with a loud, "Muah!"

"I won't be long."

I grab the strawberry pie on the table and step out, staring at the cabin.

I felt really weird not bringing anything, so yeah, I made a pie. The strawberries would've gone bad over the weekend, anyway. I'll have to pay Brian back for the sugar and butter and coconut flour later. Though I really should consider it a small bonus for putting up with him.

I walk up to Tasha's door and give it a knock. It opens as soon as I drop my hand. "Greta, that you?" Tasha smiles, ushering me in. "Everyone! Greta's here!"

The cabin's stuffed with about thirty people, including a handful of beefcakes who hoot when I walk in. "How'd you get New Girl to come?" the brown-haired guy who grabbed me earlier this week asks.

"Pie?" I offer it to Tasha, ignoring him.

"What is this, strawberry? Oh, my gods, I love you. Come this way. The girls are doing shots in the kitchen."

We join Rune and a long-haired blonde at the table. We introduce ourselves—she's a dragonologist named Penelope. "You've never tried firewhisky?" she exclaims as she fills four shot glasses.

"Never," I say. "I've been incredibly sheltered."

"I'll say." She hands me a glass. "Bottoms up."

The first taste of this particular brand of firewhisky—Blishen's, I note—is sweet like honey. But that's a ruse, 'cause then the burn comes, which is hotter than one-hundred thousand habanero chilis in my throat. Just when I feel like I might die, it fizzes away, leaving a warm, cinnamon flavor.

Rune laughs when I cough. "Burns, does it?" she asks, slapping my back.

"God. That's so much worse than tequila."

"Another?" Tasha asks. "We have another flavor to try." She reads the bottle. "Mexican hot chocolate."

I push my glass her way. "Bring it."

I love the hot chocolate one so much, I have two more shots of it. By the time the beefcakes rumble into the kitchen, I'm smiling lazily at everyone, and, for the first time, considering it very good fortune to have stumbled into a Potter fanfic.

But then Brunette Beefcake ruins it. "Holy shite. She _can_ smile. Weasley, mate, I believe you owe me ten galleons."

I glare at them both. A sheepish smile spreads over Weasley's face as Brunette Beefcake sticks out his hand. "Hey, there. I'm Isaac."

I take it, grimacing at how calloused it is. "Greta."

"This is Leo," he gestures to a tan chap with long brown hair, who nods. "And Ramon." A gold-haired, dark-skinned fellow shakes my hand, which is even more calloused than Isaac's. "I believe you already know Charlie." I glance at Weasley, who winks. Beside me, Rune groans.

"Tash! You got the hot chocolate one and you didn't tell me?" Leo exclaims, grabbing the bottle.

"Well, I wanted some for myself. So, no."

Leo scoffs but nudges her. "Let me have a shot, love."

"Oh, fine. You lot go ahead and finish it off."

As Leo pours glasses, Isaac leans against wall. "Wondering if you ladies were interested in a game."

"No," Rune says immediately.

"Wasn't asking you, Rune." Leo looks pointedly at me.

Although I'm very interested to hear about the game (Truth or Dare?!), I lean back. "You said, 'you ladies,' which also includes Rune."

"Thank you," Rune says. "And we're not interested."

"Not even if, say," Isaac examines his nails, "I take up your rounds tonight—"

"We're doing it, ladies." Rune stands, grabbing my and Penelope's arms.

"But Rune—" Tash says, rolling her eyes as Leo waggles his brows at her.

Rune stops. "Tash, please, you know how Bluebell is right now—"

"Aw, I've got to mind Bluebell?" Isaac pauses.

"Too late," Rune says. "You're committed now, Hartfield."

"Shite, Rune…"

Rune ignores him as she grabs the pie. "This gluten-free?" she asks. When I nod, she smiles. "Brilliant. Let's get this over with then."

x

After we're all settled in someone's bedroom, half of us cross-legged on the floor, Isaac produces a green glass bottle. "Wow, a kissing game," Rune says dryly. "Who would've guessed."

"Let's play Truth or Dare instead." I give Isaac an enormous smile, which he returns instantly.

"What are we, in Hogwarts?" Isaac asks.

"Weren't you the one just about to suggest Spin the Bottle?" Tasha asks.

"Touché." He places the bottle on the ground. "Well, let's combine the two, then. Whoever it lands on gets dared or questioned by the spinner. Yeah? Greta, why don't you take the honors?"

I climb over and give the bottle a hearty spin. It stops while pointing at Ramon.

"Ramon," I say, leaning back. Damn, this firewhisky relaxes me. "¿De dónde eres?"

"What?" Leo asks.

Ramon's jumped up and is now grinning. "De Santo Domingo. ¿Fue mi acento o…?"

"Un poquito," I respond. "¿Cuando llegaste de Santo Domingo?"

"Ah. Well, fui internado en Ama Verde por dos anos. Pero despues conoci a una bruja…" He laughs.

"Okay, okay, enough," Isaac says. "From now on, everyone's got to communicate in English."

"Tonto de culo," Ramon mutters and I throw my head back and laugh.

"I mean it!" Isaac says, throwing up a finger.

"Okay, Grandma," I say. "Ramon." I gesture to the bottle.

He turns it, ends up daring Tasha to sit in Isaac's lap. She acts displeased about it, but once she settles in, she looks rather comfortable to me, leaning in as he drapes an arm around her waist.

And with that, everything basically escalates until Truth or Dare becomes a kissing game. They've even enlarged the closet to pair folks for Seven Minutes in Heaven. With only a brief interlude from kiss commands when Weasley dares Rune to let him finish the pie (she scowls but hands it over), the bottle lands on me again. "Truth."

"Truth is for pussies," Leo says, taking a swig from the firewhisky.

I raise an eyebrow. "Pussies are so much stronger than cocks. In almost every way."

"Huh," he says. "Well, Greta. Are you single?"

I don't know why I feel the need to elaborate, but I say, "Yes. But not by choice." As soon as I say it, I realize it's come off all wrong. I refrain from face-palming. Firewhisky, perhaps, isn't the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Leo's wagging his eyebrows at me now. "I could help you with that, pet." He edges to my way.

Ugh. "No. I don't mean it like that."

"How the fuck else do you mean it," Rune slurs. She looks angry and I have no idea why.

I take a breath. "I'm a widow."

That sobers 'em up very quickly. "Bugger. Sorry," Leo says.

"Yeah, yeah." I grab the bottle and spin it and it lands on Weasley.

"Dare," he says.

"I dare you to pass me that last piece of pie."

He looks appalled. "Isn't this a gift? From you?"

"Just hand it over." He complies, groaning and dragging his feet like the act causes him physical pain.

After Weasley dares Isaac to hand the pie back to him, Isaac flicks it to him with a wand, declaring, "No more pie dares." He turns the bottle with a wandless spell, and it lands on me.

Considering how shitty my last go went, I take a long pause and sigh. "Dare."

"Finally!" Isaac rubs his hands together. Weasley's shaking his head like he knows what's coming. "You and Weasley. Seven in bloody Heaven."

"I'm not kissing him." I'm not.

"Good luck with that," Penelope says, giggling.

Weasley's already at the closet door. "Fuck you, Hartfield." Then he goes inside.

Well, he could certainly behave a bit more jolly about the idea of kissing me. But, whatever. He knows I hate him and he probably hates me, too. This is going to be a disaster so I can't blame him.

"Come on." Leo pulls me into the closet and shuts the door. It locks with an ominous echo.

I turn and Weasley's sitting in a chair, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He's tapping his fingers on his legs and won't look at me.

"What's with you? Can't kiss a Squib or something?"

He groans. "I'm sorry, alright?"

"For what?"

"Acting like a proper fool when I found you're a…" He coughs. "It caught me by surprise is all." He looks up at me.

"Okay," I say, taking a seat in the other chair. It's leather and cushioned with long, wide arms. "Don't worry about it."

He turns his gaze to the door, resting his face on a palm. Wow. I thought the fellow was tan, but now that he's closer than ever, I see that he's just canvassed with freckles. His hair, a light auburn, is sort of shaggy with a little wave. And yeah, as mentioned, he's ripped. Even while sitting fully clothed, every single abdominal muscle is visible.

How did I miss this guy in the books?

The silence is getting awkward now, so I'm about to suggest a very fast pop kiss when he says, "What happened to your husband? Or wife. I mean, not to assume anything. If you don't mind telling…" he trails off.

"Husband," I say quickly, noticing his neck redden. I don't know why I want to spare him the embarrassment of speaking before he thinks (which seems to be a personality trait). Maybe it's the alcohol. "And, it was, you know. The war." I figure vague is best, given Snape's instructions to not reveal my "predicament."

He nods. "I lost my brother in the Battle of Hogwarts."

"What was he like?"

His eyes dart over to me. They're brown, but light like pale ale. "Who, my brother?"

"Yeah."

He looks off, smiling. "Brilliant. He and George, his twin. They didn't get the best marks in school. And they even left early. With a bit of a bang." He chuckles. "They started this shop, Weasley Wizard Wheezes. My mum wasn't very happy. Much like when I first started working here, really. So I had no idea what to expect when I first visited, but bloody hell, Greta. You should see their stuff. Extendable ears, love potions, the classic fanged Frisbee. I was one proud big brother. And mum was _not_ pleased about my approval."

"The shops's still open, right?"

"Oh, yeah. My other brother's partnered with George now. They're doing well, but. It's not the same without Fred."

He smiles at me, displaying a very sweet dimple on his left cheek. "What about your husband? What was he like?"

I take a breath. "He loved oranges."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, isn't that weird? I mean, that it's the first thing to pop in my head? All these details, you know, about your loved ones, after they pass. They all come up all the time. Sometimes I can't escape them."

"I know what you mean. Fred was obsessed with these little seeker toys when he was little. The sort that, after you catch them in one game, they explode and pieces of chocolate go flying everywhere. Every time I see one at the counter of a store I'm at, I have to buy one. It's become a ritual."

"How many do you have now?"

He laughs. "Oh, gods. About thirty and counting." He leans back, stretching his arms. "So what else was your husband? Besides a connoisseur of oranges?"

I lean back, tucking my legs under me. "Let's see. Luke was obsessed with history, with knowing all these weird facts about things people used to do. He liked antiques, which people never expected from him. Um, he liked to surprise me." I smile. "He'd throw me a party two weeks before my birthday so there was no way I'd expect it." I sigh. "But he wasn't perfect."

"No one is," Charlie said. "Fred could be a right git when he wanted. But I miss that side of him, too."

"Yeah."

There's a long silence and I stand. "I guess we should…"

"Right." He shifts in his seat. "Do you want me to stand, or—"

"No." I walk over. "Don't move." He mimes like he's frozen, not even blinking. "Good boy," I say and he grins. I bend and kiss the corner of his mouth as soft as I can.

He laughs and his whole body shakes with it. "I don't think that's gonna cut it, Greta."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's got to be a proper kiss. That lock won't open until you tongue me. It's charmed like that."

Oh, god. It's one of _those_ fics. When I make a face, he laughs even harder. "It won't be that bad. I promise."

I close my eyes, trying to imagine the least awkward way to proceed. Should we stand? No, he's a monster. He'd have to bend over in half just to reach me. And it would probably be too weird to pull up the other chair next to his. And what about hands? "Tonguing" someone without touching them has got to be one of the worst ways to kiss.

Fuck. It's a fanfic. And he's hot. So, just enjoy it, right?

"Okay." I look up at his amused expression. "I'm ready."

"Took you quite a while. Almost thought you weren't keen on kissing me there."

"Ha." I take a step closer. "Put your arms down."

"Like this?" He drops them to his sides.

"Yeah."

His eyebrows shoot up when I sit in his lap, side-saddle.

"Give me your hands." He holds them up.

I take them, noting they're as calloused as his colleagues'. I put one behind me, on about mid-back, and the other at my waist. "Don't move these."

"Aye, aye, captain."

He's really warm. That's nice. I reach my hands up to cup his face, my palms gliding over the soft scruff. "Close your eyes." He complies.

His lips are pretty. Pink and wide and not too thin. Finally, I lean in.

I take his top lip between mine, grazing over the short whiskers of his moustache. He opens immediately to my bottom lip, flicking his tongue on it.

I slide my hands into his hair as I move my lips down, this time grazing my teeth on the pad of his bottom lip. I take a risk and suck it in. He draws in a fast breath, lifting his legs up to slide me closer, but not budging his hands, as directed. Sneaky bastard.

I put my tongue in his mouth and, am embarrassed to admit, moan immediately. He tastes really good. Like strawberries and firewhisky and juniper.

His hands tighten their grip on me as I let him tongue me, and I have to turn my head because we're getting rather frantic. I slide my palm over his chest. His pectoral muscles are smooth and hard. I find his nipple with my thumb and flick lightly. He groans and deepens the kiss.

God, it's been way too long since I've had any action. If I were turned on any more, my body would be molten lava.

I break the kiss abruptly and am oddly relieved to see he looks just as startled and lusty as I feel, with his face pink, his breath heavy, his eyes dark.

I stand, attempting to hide my trembling arms in vain. "You're—you're not supposed to be that good at kissing."

"And why is that?" He looks amused again, which, fuck, makes him look sexier, if that were even possible.

"Because you're buff and handsome and guys like you are notoriously bad at sex."

His smile drops immediately and he opens his mouth to respond, but we're interrupted with a knock on the door. "What the fuck is going on in there?" It's Rune.

I open it and walk out, with Weasley at my heels. "So Greta thinks I'm handsome," he announces triumphantly.

"That was a backhanded compliment," I retort.

"Still. You said it."

Great. Cocky Beefcake has returned. "Where's Tasha?" I ask, ignoring him.

"She's getting us some more firewhisky," Penelope responds.

I leave the bedroom without a word. "Hey," I say to Tasha in the kitchen. "I've got to get going. Thanks so much for inviting me."

"Sure," she says. "Thanks for the pie. I really enjoyed the bite Rune allowed me."

"No problem." I laugh.

"Hey, just a sec." I turn back. "You should join us at The Blue Dragon tomorrow."

"What's that?"

"Oh, a pub we all generally end up at most weekends. We usually get the first round on the house. Probably because we're their main source of income." She grins.

"Thanks, but I don't think I can."

"Right. Sometime, then?"

"Yeah. Sometime."

x

After getting Viggo to bed, I pull out my Mary Sue list, marking number ten: _Asked to play "spin the bottle," "seven in heaven," or "truth or dare" at some point in the story with love triangle points present._

I pause and add a question mark. I mean, was there a love triangle present? I didn't feel that kind of tension at any point. It's clear this is a Charlie Weasley fic of some kind, which, I don't know who's into that. All I wrote was the steamy Dramione stuff like any sane person does.

Underneath the list, I draw a triangle. One one point, I write, _Greta_. At another, I scribble, _Charlie_. He's attractive. I'm not stupid enough to deny it. Plus we've already kissed this early on in the story… and I already want to kiss him again, even though he's an ass. Are those good reasons? Probably not, but they'll do.

I let my Sharpie pen linger just above the last point. Now who could… Snape? Why am I even asking. The man loathes every atom of my existence. What about Brian? Nah. I think he fantasizes about hitting everyone on the head with cast-iron skillets, including me.

There are all those dragon tamers I met tonight. Ramon was the only one who behaved decently. Maybe that'll evolve into something. He, in what appears to be a job requirement for tamers, is also smokin'.

Then there's Sirius Black. Mmm. A girl could only hope for that sort of luck.

x

Over the weekend, Anja stops by and brings me more clothes and cleans my older ones with a quick charm. She seems rather busy so we don't talk long. Beyond that, it's just me and Viggo, hanging out in our little place, which I'm sort of starting to fall in love with. The back of it opens, beyond my neighbors, to three mountain peaks, sharp as daggers. And in the evenings, the sun sets behind them. Viggo and I are already spoiled with spectacular sunsets. Sunday evening, I drag a chair on the little back porch and put him in my lap. "Do you see all the colors?" I ask.

He nods. "Hed." (Red.) "Own." (Orange). "Peek." (Pink.) And we watch it until there's nothing but a long gold line on the horizon.

My heart breaks a little when I remind myself that none of this is real.

x

Charlie stops by after lunch the next day. He's real light-footed, like Snape. One second, I'm alone, returning from checking on a napping Viggo. The next, I jump because he's standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, grinning at me like I'm his favorite person in the world. "Hey," he says, flashing me that dimple.

"Hey. You need something?"

"Just wondering if you're busy after work." He leans against the wall, crossing his arms, which makes his biceps look larger than my head.

"I'm always busy after work."

He watches as I rinse a skillet, placing it back on the burner to dry on the flames. "There's a lovely little restaurant that just opened downtown. Lots of gluten-free options."

I sigh, drying my hands on a towel, cutting the burner off. "Look. You seem like a nice guy." I suddenly remember when Rune yelled at him the other night when he was dry-humping a woman on his porch. "Most of the time. I guess."

"That's quite the endorsement, Greta." He grins and I start to smile back but stop myself.

"I'm just not into dating right now."

He takes a step forward. "Are you into… other things?"

Oh, god, yes. But also, no, no, no. No matter how awesome his ass looks in those jeans.

I've hesitated too long. He's got a wild look in his eye and he's licking his lips. "Look, I've never… you know. Spent time with a Squib before. Like that. But you seem really cool. You're beautiful. I think we could have fun together."

I blink. Did he just give me the ol' 'I'm not attracted to girls like you, but I'll make an exception'? I've heard that once before, from a White guy who got all weird and fetish-y when he found out I'm Chicana. And now I get the Squib version. Hurrah.

"Charlie?" I say. He lifts his chin, flexing his jaw. "Go fuck yourself."

Now he looks flabbergasted. "I—don't unders—I mean—" he stammers. He's already blushing.

"If you don't understand why what you said is the last thing a girl "like me" wants to hear, then." I sigh.

"Wait," he says. "I just told you I thought you're cool and beautiful—"

"But for a Squib, right?"

His mouth closes. And opens again. "Hold on," he says. "You've made some pretty intense assumptions about me, you know. That I'm not good at fucking because—"

"Oh, my god!" I throw up my hands. "Now _you're_ the victim?" I take a long breath, curling my hands into fists when Viggo cries.

"What's that?" Charlie asks, alarmed.

"That's my son, who you've just woken up from his nap a good forty-five minutes early, thank you." I march into the next room and pick Viggo up. I rest his head on my shoulder, rocking him. Thank God, he falls asleep almost instantly.

I turn. Charlie's in the doorway and he looks horrified. " _Why_ are you still here?" I hiss.

"You have a son?" he whispers.

"Yes. This is my son, Charlie." When he continues to stare at me like I've just admitted I'm a werewolf, I groan. "Let me guess. You've never _spent time_ a woman who's a single mom, huh?"

He looks like he wants to say something, but a croaking noise comes out instead.

"Look," I whisper. "I'm not going to explain your bullshit back to you, alright? That's what books are for. And as far as I'm concerned, we can't even be friends. Not until you read at least five seminal texts on feminism and emotional labor. _Muggle_ ones." Which I _know_ isn't going to happen. "Now please, please, please, leave us alone."

I turn to place Viggo in bed. When I look back, Charlie is gone.

* * *

 _Forgive me, my Spanish is rusty. I went over this with my translator (Hi, Mom, if you ever run into this!) but let me know if something's off and I'll fix it. I put the translated phrases in italics._

"Ramon," I say, leaning back. Damn, this firewhisky relaxes me. " _Where are you from?_ "

"What?" Leo asks.

Ramon's jumped up and is now grinning. " _Santo Domingo. Was it my accent or...?_ "

" _A bit_ ," I respond. " _When did you get here from Santo Domingo?_ "

" _Ah. Well, I interned at Ama Verde for two years. But then I met a witch…_ " He laughs.

"Okay, okay, enough," Isaac says. "From now on, everyone's got to communicate in English."

" _Dumb ass_ ," Ramon mutters and I throw my head back and laugh.


	6. The Sort-of-Great Escape

_Thanks for the faves and follows (and guest readers!). I know this isn't the standard fare but I appreciate your giving it a chance and I hope you're enjoying it._

* * *

"Annette," I say, walking into the wizard kitchen. "Are you going to be baking bread for a bit longer?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll be here for an hour. Why?"

"I was thinking of stopping by the laboratory. To see the Professor."

Annette visibly brightens. "Really. Mmm. Will you tell him I asked for him?"

I nod. "Yeah. Of course. I'm going to start trying to get him to uh, date you. And I also need to ask him a couple questions. For my studies. Just—I won't be long. It's just that Viggo's napping—"

"Don't worry," Annette says. "If you can get the Professor to take me out, Greta, I'll owe you ten—no twenty— baby-sits."

That's quite the _if_ , but I just smile. "Sure. For the floo, do I just say…"

"Oh, it's the Moor Laboratory. That'll do it."

"Thanks."

x

I expected Snape Headquarters to be sleek and clinical, but in fact, it's really warm and cozy. The walls are made of thick-cut river rocks in varying shades of earth. There are fireplaces tucked into every nook (even a couple the size of my hand! What, for fairies?) and a little café in the corner of the building, where a sign boasts "New! Pumpkin Spiced lattes infused with Relax-Me Droughts."

I stop a young woman and ask where the Professor might be. "He's in his office, I think," she responds, pointing. "Down that hall. The very end. Silver door—you can't miss it."

The door is massive, around eleven feet tall, and it's tapered at the top, made entirely of antique silver. There's an elaborate Green Man door knocker on its center. I lift and release the ring, jumping when the sting of its sound reverberates all around me.

The door opens a sliver and I push it, peeking my head through. Snape's at a desk, piles of books all around him. The long windows give way to the gold evening light. His head is down as he writes with a grey quill. "Ms. Riverstone," he says without looking up. "How gracious of you to interrupt me in the middle of the work day."

It's five o'clock. I guess potioneers must keep odd hours.

"Apologies, Professor. But I…" I what? I'm insane? I for wish this whole, elaborate mind-palace-fuckery to end?

He's made the effort to look at me now, though he acts as though it's excruciating.

I swallow and begin again, closing the door behind me. "You're clever. And powerful. And smart."

"The point, Ms. Riverstone."

"This isn't real." I touch a cherry wood bookshelf to my right. "This?" I point at painting of Hogwarts on the wall. "That?" I then gesture everywhere. "None of this is _real_." I approach his desk and he follows me with his eyes. "This is just one absurd, extended hallucination. You've already been in my head. You know where I come from. You know I don't believe in, in _magic._ "

He throws his quill on the desk with a clatter. "What I know, Ms. Riverstone is that you're prone to delusions in denying the very reality that surrounds you." His face holds a scowl as he continues. "You are under the narcissistic impression that even I am a figment of your imagination. That the world revolves around you because you think that it comes _from_ you." He stands, his robes swinging behind him with a slap.

"You know, Professor, this is exactly what a fake-Snape would say to try to convince me—"

" _I am not fake_. I am _not_ just a character from a poorly-written series of books which that woman, that _witch_ , had no right to publish!"

I stare as his chest rises and falls violently. "Woah, woah. You can't say Harry Potter wasn't well wri…" I trail off. "Wait, hold on. So you're saying J.K. is a _witch_?"

"Of course she's a witch. And she's made her fortune over stories that—" He stops, swirling my way, his eyes like hot coals. "I assure you, Ms. Riverstone, that there is nothing about you that is remarkable or special. I doubt that even the nail of your pinky finger has magical talent. Yet, Barty Crouch Junior looks for you. I have yet to figure out why and he has yet to find you. Until whichever occurs first, you are to remain on this reservation. Do I make myself clear?"

My hands are curled into fists. "So you're saying that you're keeping me and my son here as bait or something?"

"Bait and research, Ms. Riverstone." He narrows his eyes at me, giving me a once-over, like he thinks I have a weapon or something hidden in my apron.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This is fiction, I tell myself. Don't fucking cry. When I glance up, I see a flicker of something odd in his face. Pity? Guilt? No matter, because he's hardened his features again and returns to his desk chair. "If you don't mind, Ms. Riverstone, I am quite busy."

I let my fingers glide on the chair in front of me. "One last question, Professor." I bite my lips. "Are you free on any evening this week, or perhaps on the weekend?"

He bores his eyes into mine in response. I drop mine to my hands.

"I heard there's this lovely, quaint restaurant downtown, with lots of gluten-free options. And my co-worker, Annette Taren, you know her, right? She wanted a companion to check it out with. For dinner. Nothing serious, you know. Just, maybe, I don't know, a night of laughter and joy—" I glance up at his mirthless expression— "and I have it on good authority that there will likely be sexual gratification at the end of the night—"

"Out of my office now, Riverstone."

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

x

As I'm passing out the gluten-free breakfast of a veggie omelet, bacon and buttered pumpkin bread, Tasha lightly touches my arm. "Hey, you okay?"

"Sure, yeah," I say.

She blinks. "You just seemed off."

"What's with the kid?" Rune asks loudly. I've got Viggo wrapped up on my back, where I can feel his gentle snore on my shoulder.

"He's not feeling well. And I can't afford childcare right now."

"Oh, that's your kid." Rune wrinkles her nose in distaste. "Why don't you just cast a sticking charm? It'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable than that thing."

"Because I'm not a witch," I respond slowly. "And I'm tired of asking Annette to cast spells for me."

Tasha, Rune and a handful of the dragon keepers stare at me blankly for a moment. Weasley keeps his head down, as has been his habit when I come around lately. "Oh!" Tasha says. "You're a—"

"Squib," Rune says, her face looking as gleeful as I've ever seen it. "You hear that, Weasley," she calls down the table. "New Girl's a Squib."

Charlie glances up at her. "I know," he says gruffly.

Rune's face falls and she turns to me with a sour look. "I didn't realize they hire kitchen Squibs here," she snarls. "Maybe I should write another grievance since we now know you can't clean your hands properly."

"Rune," Charlie says with a warning in his voice.

"What?" Rune asks innocently.

"Stop being a bitch," Tasha says with a low voice.

As if my week could be any less pleasant. "Look, I use Thieves essential oils to wash my hands. Don't know if you've ever heard of them, but the blend kills a million percent of germs. And file a grievance all you want. Brian will sack me and then you'll get to enjoy his version of gluten-free once again." Luckily, this shuts Rune up immediately.

"You know," Isaac says, giving me a sly grin. "I've never been with a Squib before. Care to help change that, love?"

There's a bit of hooting as I stomp away. I decide at that moment that I'll never willingly hang out with Beefcakes again.

x

After lunch, I sit on the bench just outside my kitchen, staring at the trees, having the pity party to end all pity parties. "Mo," Viggo says on my chest, milk spilling on my shirt.

"Oh, misty eye of the mountain below," I begin softly. He's completely obsessed with Ed Sheeran's "I See Fire," demanding it every time he's under the weather. He smiles, spilling more milk. I smooth his stick-straight and warm brown hair. All traits from his dad.

As I sing, I wonder what it'll really take to end this cluster fuck. Though generally discombobulated about the whole thing, I have to admit, it's been kind of fun to actually see and experience a world I've only read and written about. Movies don't do it justice. It's been breath-taking and wondrous and… and now, I feel, more than ever, like I don't belong.

"We need to get home," I whisper to Viggo.

Maybe if I make it to where this whole thing started, I can find the way out.

"Mo song," Viggo responds, smiling so big his eyes crinkle.

x

In the morning, when my phone goes off, I stay in bed for a minute, counting how many days I've been here. Almost two weeks. I sigh. I need to try something. For him, I think, glancing at Viggo as he hums in his sleep.

I wait until the cafeteria's closed before getting Viggo down. "Greta?" Annette asks, stepping in. "You ready?" She's been doing this for a while, escorting me and Viggo to the floo at the end of the day. At first, I thought it was sweet that she made sure we got home safe. But now I wonder if this is a way for Snape to control my movements, especially considering the only floo I have access to that can get me just about anywhere is this one.

"Shit, Annette," I say. "Viggo just fell asleep. Since he's been feeling so bad, I think I might wait."

She looks torn, glancing at her watch. "I've got to pick up Mari, Thorus and Beau today. I can't stay."

"I wouldn't ask it of you." I wave her off. "Don't worry about us. I'm going to give him an hour, at least."

"He hasn't gotten worse, has he?"

"He's a bit better," I say. "I checked his mouth earlier and it looks like the tooth cut through, so I hope it's downhill from here."

"Good. Well, if you need anything, let me know, okay?"

"Of course."

This must be another way they've trapped me here. Snape said to contact Anja if I needed him. Anja said to contact Snape if I needed her. And now Annette with this. But no one seems keen on letting me know the hell I'm supposed to accomplish any of it.

As soon as she's gone, I make tomorrow's meals, leaving a few easy instructions. As much of a bastard that he is, I feel bad leaving Brian high and dry.

After that, I sit down and write letters. I thank Annette and Anja for their kindness, leaving a fistful of galleons from my first (and only) paycheck for Anja to back the clothes and food. And finally, this:

 _Dear Professor Snape,_

 _Thanks for nothing, you bastard._

 _Greta_

x

I guess I thought International Portkey Travel would look like an airport or something. I'm taken aback when we step through the floo and it's a small red room with a single attendant behind a desk.

"Can I help you?"

"I need a Portkey to New York City."

"Ooh," she frowns, looking at a map of papers in front of her. "Hmm, let's see." She wipes her wand from side to side, flicking the pages here and there, like a tornado.

"Mama, look," Viggo says, his eyes wide.

"I know, hon."

"Well, we'd have to set up a three-stop for you. It would take about seven hours total."

"What? I mean, I thought Portkeys were instantaneous—"

"There's a lot of prep, ma'am. Regulations. Curse checks. It can take up to three hours per destination."

I sigh, looking down, my hand fingering my coin-purse that now contain what's left of my first wages. "It's just a little late for us."

"I can set up a bed and breakfast. You can stay here at the Center."

"Uh- sure," I say. I pay up, she does something fancy with her wand that includes a pink spray of light, and a door appears to my right. "Thanks."

I grab Viggo in my arms. Before I step through, I glance at a portrait on the wall and meet the eyes of Albus Dumbledore. He tips his hat as I shut the door.

I almost cry when I get into the bed with Viggo. I know I'm not out of the Romanian woods yet, but fuck. I finally feel free.

x

After breakfast, I get back to the Portkey Center, only to be told there's been some "complications," and I need to wait. "Only about thirty minutes," the man promised.

Three hours later, Viggo's out of his mind with boredom, and about thirty folks have already made off on their travels. I ask if I can make a muggle phone call.

He does that pink wand thing and a rotary phone appears on a pedestal to my left. I grab my cell phone, searching through the contacts, then pull the numbers on the fancy landline.

"Yeah," a voice barks on the line.

"Danny?"

"Yeah."

Oh, my god. Danny Ramirez exists. "Hey, it's Greta Riverstone."

"Greta, you say? Jesus, where you been? The cops have been looking for you for what, three weeks now?"

"Did you tell them you put me and my son on the streets?" I hiss.

"Yeah, I mean. I told them all I could. So where the hell are you?"

"Oh, you know. Overseas."

"Really?"

"Danny, I was just calling because I just needed to know if things… happened. So you did kick me out, right?"

"Look, I told the cops everything. That I told you to go to the womens' shelter. And some guy stopped by, a real freak. Had this fucking hat on." Goosebumps prick along my arms. "He said if you reached out to me, to say the word. Um, what's that bad guy on those fuckin' Harry Potter movies? Volde—"

He's cut off by gasps.

"Danny?"

Now it sounds like wheezing. Then, a blood-curdling scream, but muffled—like it's stuck in his throat.

"Danny! What the fuck is going on?"

There's a plop sound, and all I can hear is some erratic breathing. "Hello, Greta." The voice is gentle, like a child's. I can almost see him, his long snake-legs, those eyes that look like they might pop out any second. "Princess, are you there?"

I hang up the phone as hard as I can.


	7. If the Broom Fits

Viggo's in the sling over my chest, sound asleep. I've got my head in my hands when I hear a woman. "Miss?"

I look up. "Miss, you have a visitor. In that room right there." She gestures to a door to her left, left to the Dumbledore portrait. Though Dumbledore's no longer there.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"Um… let's see. He didn't give a name, but he's here to escort you?"

Shit. Shit. Shit. "Can you tell him to go away by any chance?"

"I'm sorry, I can't do that, miss. He's got some kind of Ministry authority and a, uh, missing magical persons' warrent… if you don't meet with him, he's likely to send Aurors to retrieve you."

Okay. Well, there's no way Crouch Junior could have that kind of power, right? Even so, I pull out my wand. I have no idea why, but it's the only thing on me that even resembles a weapon.

I crack open the door and see the Dracula-like form of a seething Snape. "Oh, my god," I say, shutting the door behind me. "Thank God it's you."

"I gave you one instruction, Riverstone. One. I should've known an ignorant girl like you-"

"He's killed my landlord." I inhale. Tears sting at my eyes. "And it's my fucking fault. I mean, I hated the guy, but I didn't want him to die, you know—"

"Elaborate." He pulls the word so long, it takes me a second to make it out.

I take a seat on a folding chair and tell him what happened. When I'm finished, he's practically shaking with rage. "You imbecile," he says. "You've essentially given a map to the most powerful Death Eater alive indicating your _exact_ whereabouts." Before I can say anything, he whips his wand out. " _Expecto Patronum_ ," he mutters, and a wisp from stretches him, all white, rolling and swirling until it resembles a doe.

Ah. Still.

"I've found her," he says to the doe. "Tell the others to gather in my office. Including our new recruits." The doe nods her head and gallops away, leaving a trail of stardust in her path.

He marches forward and grabs my arm. "This way, Ms. Riverstone," he hisses, pulling me out the door.

x

He's apparated me to the outside of what I think is the Potions Building. "Let me go," I demand. Viggo's whimpering into my shoulder as Snape drags me on. "Stop it! You're hurting me!"

Snape stops, turning toward me with a growl. "If you think this hurts, just _imagine_ what it's like to be captured and tortured by a group of Death Eaters. They would render you to nothing more than a shrieking banshee in a matter of minutes. And that's _before_ the curses begin."

His threats just cause my rage to amplify. I stretch my tingling fingers. "I'm not apologizing for trying to get away after what you said to me last night, Snape."

He's turned, yanking so hard, it feels like my shoulder's about to pop out. I drop my weight, forcing him to stop. He glares at me while muttering what I assume is a spell, because my feet start moving of their own accord, practically running by his side toward the building.

" _No_ ," I say. "I'll walk, okay? Take off the spell." I flail trying to stop my feet, but they keep going.

"Make me," he says through gritted teeth.

Now my whole hand is tingling, the one clutching my wand. I aim it at him. "Stop!" I scream.

A sprinkle of light flares out right at him. He flies away as though being hit with a car. My feet stop their animation, causing me to tumble. I turn my body so Viggo doesn't hit the ground, which I slam into with my shoulder and the side of my head. I roll over, running my arms over Viggo's back as he cries. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay." I pull my shirt and lower him to my breast and he nurses, soothed immediately.

When I lift my torso up, I feel a drizzle of warm blood run down my cheek. Must be some nasty scrape.

Snape's already standing. He's got some grass stains on the front of his shirt and his hair is rumpled. And he's staring at me like he can't quite believe what's happened. And as I register it, I can't, either. Did I actually…Did I _really_ just...

My thoughts are interrupted when he walks over and abruptly helps me up.

"Don't touch me," I say, tossing his arm off.

"Is the child…" He glances at Viggo.

"He's fine."

"Very well." He's back to that expressionless face, the one he puts on when he's hiding what he's really feeling. "Let's not keep them waiting any longer, then."

x

Annette jumps up when I walk in the office. "Gods in heavens," she says, rushing to me. "Did he—did Barty—?"

"No," Snape says, following. "Ms. Riverstone and I had an… altercation."

I scoff, turning to the side as I unlatch Viggo, pulling my shirt up. "You mean you tried to pull of my fucking arm, you abusive piece of—" I stop, turning to glower at him. "I can't even think of something loathsome enough to describe you!"

"Severus," Annette says. Her tone is mostly accusatory, but there's something else there, a softness resembling disappointment. Snape won't look her in the eye, which makes me wonder what else is between them besides a kiss.

Annette draws her mouth in a thin line as she waves her wand over my head. I can feel the skin mending- an odd prickle. "So it's true," Annette laments.

"Of course it's true." I turn to see a man sitting in Snape's desk chair. He's got wild hair and a dark beard and he's wearing a worn leather jacket. He leans back, crossing his arms. "Why we've got an overemotional bully on the case is beyond me—"

Snape snarls at the man. "Ms. Riverstone was attempting to flee the country. I did what was necessary to escort her back."

"Are you kidding me?" I swirl around on him. " _That_ was not necessary, Snape. Especially after—"

The door swing opens and Anja enters, followed by Tasha and Charlie. She glances at our faces. "Ah," she says. "What did we miss?"

x

"And he picked up the phone, asking for me by name. I hung up."

Everyone's sitting in a bunch of plush chairs Annette transfigured from quills. She pushes a cup of tea in my hands. "Thanks," I say. I hadn't realized how much my hands tremble until now. I set the tea down and grab a cracker from my purse, handing it to Viggo, who rolls a wooden dragon toy around, courtesy of a spell from Tasha.

"We need to tell Potter," Anja says.

"I already have," Snape responds. "He's notified the NYAD. They will investigate... the scene."

I sip the tea and immediately feel a sense of relief throughout my body. My hands stop shaking. I glance at Annette, who's eyeing me carefully.

"Well, we need to refigure our defensive structures here at the reserve," Anja says. "Now that we know he's likely to strike here next."

"Just a minute, Anja," the wild man says. He's standing now, since Snape kicked him out of his chair. "I don't understand something." He looks directly at me. "Why'd you leave?"

I take another sip of tea as the man continues. "You've got it made here, Riverstone. A job—"

"Erm," Annette interrupts. "Not anymore. Sorry, dear. Brian was quite livid when—"

"Right, right. Had a job, then," the man continues. "A nice place. Even a babysitter." He gives Annette a grin and I'm rather struck by how handsome this chap is. Annette smiles bashfully in return while Snape scowls.

I take a breath. "What would you do if you woke up one day in a place that, that—" Shouldn't exist? "—you've never set foot in before." I'm so pissed when a tear falls. I wipe it away aggressively. "And you discover that technically, you're being held here against your will. You and your baby. As Death Eater _bait_. What would you do?"

"Now, Greta," Anja says. "That's not what's happening, here."

"Isn't it?" I say. "You've all _trapped_ me here. I have no way to contact anyone. Not allowed to go anywhere without an escort. I just learned that I was being spied on." I glare at Tasha and Charlie. "You told me I'd be tutored by him—" I jerk my thumb in Snape's direction—"but all you were doing was trying to figure out what Barty McSnakeLegs—the wild man snorts—"wants with me. No one thought it prudent to even let me know any of this." I glare at Wild Man, who's still chucking. "And who the hell are you?"

His eyes twinkle. "Sirius Black. At your service."

My mouth gapes as Charlie clears his throat. "Greta. Why do you have a wand in your hand?"

I glance down. I hadn't even realized I'd pulled it out during my rant.

"Ah, yes," Snape says. "We have a new development regarding Ms. Riverstone."

"She's a witch?" Anja asks.

Snape nods.

"Well," Anja says, worry crossing her face. "That certainly changes things, doesn't it?"


	8. A Sirius Make-Out Session

"Right," Charlie says I step into his cabin, Viggo strapped to my chest with Sirius behind. "You'll be in the bedroom there. Tasha's already made a, uh, crib and moved your stuff in."

"Why can't I stay with her, again?" I don't mean it to sounds as rude as it comes out, but I guess there's no other way to ask at this point.

Charlie gives me a smile. "You really hate me, don't you?" He sighs. "Tasha's not as dispensable as I am with regards to the beasts right now, especially since..." He trails off. "She just can't."

"Nice place, little Moose," Sirius says, glancing around.

"Thanks, Sirius." Charlie says, placing take-out on the table. "Firewhisky's in the icebox."

"Good man."

Sirius has already poured glasses for us when we sit to eat. "So, Greta," Sirius says, throwing his shot back. "Now that Anja's called me to take charge on the activities, I don't want to make the same mistakes they did. Leaving you in the dark and all. So if you've got any questions…"

"Why does it matter if I'm a witch or not?"

Sirius nods. "Death Eaters are looking for a witch. So, we need everyone to continue to think you're a Squib."

"A witch who can sing?" I remember that first question Snape slapped on me.

"A witch who's got some type of singing magic," Charlie supplies.

I look away warily. I grab my firewhisky and toss it back, not even choking. "How long have you been on the case?" I ask Charlie with a glare.

He puts his hands up. "I just got called in yesterday. Found everything out then, too. You gave 'em quite a fright, running off like that."

"And now you're my babysitter."

Charlie sighs. "Yes. Unfortunate."

Sirius is glancing back and forth between us with a grin. "How long have you two known each other?"

I shrug while Charlie laughs. "Made the mistake of trying to help her 'bout two weeks back."

"You offered me unsolicited, useless advice," I retort.

"Hey! I didn't know it was useless at the time. But, as it turns out, you are a witch, so." Charlie pours himself another shot. "You're welcome." I roll my eyes when he stands, grabbing our empty plates. "I've got to run to the store. Don't have enough food for three."

"Is that code for _we_ have to go to the store?" I ask.

"Sirius is here. You can stay."

"Thank God," I mutter.

Charlie shakes his head, grumbling as he cleans the dishes. He grabs his coat and leaves through the floo, leaving me and Viggo alone with Sirius Black.

Sirius fucking Black.

x

Viggo went down surprisingly fast. Well, perhaps not so surprisingly, now that I think about it. Sirius had played a rough tickle game with him for thirty minutes while I unpacked in Charlie's guest room. That, coupled with the extraordinarily rough day we'd had, meant he went out like a light in no time.

I grab a long-sleeved nightgown the color of storm clouds and throw it on. It's a rather hideous thing, with puffy sleeves and a worn lace edge on the bottom, which reaches mid-thigh. But when all you've got is second-hand clothes, you can't really complain, I guess.

I walk out, where Sirius is on the sofa, leaned back, _The Daily Prophet_ in one hand and a glass of firewhisky in the other. "Care for a nightcap, dearie?" he asks, smiling.

"Sure," I say, sitting on a chair opposite him, not missing the appreciative manner his eyes flick over my bare legs as he reaches for another glass.

"Nice house dress."

"Oh, you don't have to pretend this is anything other than atrocious." I laugh. "All my clothes have been given to me out of pity. So, they're not the most beautiful in the world."

He chuckles along with me. "It's not bad… for a seventy-year-old broad." Pouring the firewhisky, he adds, "Why don't you tell me all about yourself, Greta." He hands me the glass and plops back on his seat, tossing the paper on the coffee table.

I tuck my legs under myself and take a sip. "Um. Well, I'm from Kansas City, Missouri. I was raised by my mother. She was a… interesting lady. I'll just say that. But she passed away when I was fifteen."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He looks like he means it.

"It was a long time ago." I shrug. "Anyway, I went to live with relatives in New Jersey and stayed there for a while. Got married young, got pregnant. My husband died a couple years back. And, long, story short, now I'm here." I say the last bit cheerfully, tossing back the rest of my drink. I shake my head when he lifts the bottle, eyebrows raised. "What about you? What do you do?" I ask.

He smiles really big, the lines around his eyes deepening. "The technical term is freelancer. That's what I'm categorized by the Ministry, anyhow. But most folks call me a bounty hunter."

"That sounds exciting," I say, grinning.

"Yeah. It is. 'Course, there are nasty parts of the job. I get my hands dirty quite a bit. But the pay is brilliant. I'm never in one place too long. I couldn't ask for anything more perfect."

"So, what sort of folks do you catch? Death Eaters, or…"

"Well, since the Azkaban break, yeah, we've all been put to work on that in some way or another. But usually, I'm hired for smugglers. Anything from Dark Artifacts to time turner parts. I catch quite a bit of folks smuggling dragon eggs, which means I visit the reserve here every so often to get those babies in good hands." He winks.

God, this man is so much more attractive than I imagined. His eyes are pale grey like winter, framed by long, dark lashes. His hair reminds me of Aragorn's in the LOTR movies—ruffled but not overly so. And his jaw is chiseled and angular, his lips pursed and narrow…

He smirks and I blink, looking away. Fuck, Sirius Black just caught me ogling him. But hey. This is all not real, right? I mean, I'm still 90% of the belief. Have fun, I remind myself sternly.

"Hey," I say, biting my lip. "You wanna blow off some steam?"

He glances back at the kitchen. "Ah, I'm not sure if Moose's got anything other than this firewhisky—"

"No, I mean. Do you want to…" He cocks his head. "Have sex?" I finish.

His smirk turns feral. "Where?"

x

I'm writhing under _Sirius Black_ on the sofa, giving his tongue a gentle suck as he groans. "Christ," he says, breaking the kiss to nuzzle at my neck and collarbone. I angle my hips so that I can feel his erection _right there_ , and I swear, I'm so close already I may as well be coming. I can hardly breathe but somehow am able to moan, loudly, when his hand captures my breast, sliding his fingers around my nipple.

"You know what?" he says, pushing up to look me in the eyes. "I've changed my mind. I quite like this dress." I laugh, but it's cut short by his tongue on my nipple, teasing through the thin fabric.

"Oh, God," I whisper, "Don't stop, please, don't— _ow_."

He jerks his head up. "Did I hurt you, pet?"

"No," I say. "Well. My arm. If you'll let it go, please?" He pulls his hand down and I breathe a sigh of relief. "Snape. He yanked at me today like his only life goal was to disconnect my arm from my body."

"Let me see," Sirius says, pushing up to his knees. He folds the sleeve up gently, giving a low growl. "That motherfucking grease bucket."

"What?" I glance down. "Oh. Shit." My arm has a giant bruise in a color normally reserved for deep ocean paintings.

Sirius falls back on the couch, kicking his legs out. "We should get you some salve," he says, standing.

"I'm fine," I say, sitting up. "Really. I just read that orgasms are really good for pain relief, so sex would be a salve, of sorts."

He chuckles, sitting. "Look, pet. I already bloody regret what I'm about to say, but… we can't shag. Not yet, at least."

I furrow my brow. "What? Why? Did I mess it up or—"

"No, no. Bloody perfect. That's what you are." He pours himself another shot. "It's just, well, I've been hired to work your case. At this point, there can't be any conflict of interests mucking things up."

"Why?" I scoff. "In case I turn out to be the enemy?"

He smiles. "I've been doing this for a long while and I know you're not the enemy, Greta." He sighs. "I just want to maintain my professionalism. And all that rubbish."

"But you were just on top of me," I say, giving him a half smile.

"And then your arm reminded me what I'm doing here." He stands again. "Believe me. Under any other circumstances..." He gives me a lusty look that makes me want to jump his bones. "You'd be screaming my name right about now."

"That confident, eh?"

He laughs. "Nah. I'd love to have you. Just, after all this is done. If you still want me." He winks. "Let me get that bruise salve."

x

"Come here," Sirius says, using his wand to recline the sofa. I fall into his arms, resting my head on his chest, the bruise salve rendering all pain on my temple and arm gone.

"God, it's been so long since I've been touched," I murmur, inhaling the pine and varnish and leather of him. "I don't think I've even had a hug from an adult human in over two years."

"Everyone needs to be touched, dearie." He runs his fingers in light circles on my back.

"Even Snape?"

"Much as I hate to say it, probably he needs it the most. Though I can't imagine who'd stoop so low."

"Annette."

"Annette? Really?" His voice reverberates against my head.

"Apparently, they've kissed."

"Bloody hell."

There's a bit of silence, which is just as nice as talking to him. I hum a little tune, stretching out my legs.

"What are you singing there, Songbird?"

I stiffen. "Why'd you call me that?"

"Well, a half dozen Death Eaters think you're a singing fairy of sorts."

I exhale, relaxing. "Oh. Nothing. Just a lullaby my mom used to sing to me."

"Can I hear it?"

"Mm. I'm a little tired."

"Don't worry about it, pet." He pats my back and we're silent again. I'm lulled to sleep within minutes.

x

I vaguely hear rustling but am too exhausted to open my eyes. "You won't believe the bloody lines out there." It's Charlie. "Apparently, it's leaked somehow that Death Eaters might come here and everyone's—what the hell, Sirius? Did you drug her?" He's now whispering.

"Not at all," Sirius says back. "Our little songbird seems to fancy me."

"So you did drug her." Charlie sounds far away now. "Because _that_ bird doesn't like anyone."

Sirius places a hand on the small of my back, chuckling. "You got everything you need, little Moose?"

"Yeah. If you need something while you're here, though, I suggest you get it quick. Half the store was empty when I got there."

Sirius sighs. "Folks think it's another war, do they?"

"They're not taking any chances," Charlie says.

Both men stop speaking when I yawn. "Would you two shut up," I mumble.

"We need to get you to bed, dearie," Sirius says, nudging me up. "I need to get to my place. Gotta floo Harry."

"Tell him hey, would you?" Charlie says. I'm standing now and Charlie's eyes immediately drop to my nipples. I grimace, folding my arms over my chest. Charlie's turned away now but even from here I can see the red of his cheeks. Why can't this guy ever hold it together?

"'Night," I say, mainly to Sirius.

"'Night, pet. We'll talk soon."

I walk in my room, check on the baby, and get right to sleep.


	9. Don't Tempt the Fanfic Writer, Greta

_I accidentally re-posted the last chapter earlier. So sorry about that!_

* * *

Viggo and I wake late. The sun coming through the window is bright and something about it seems off. I blink at it for a few moments. It seems warmer, like it's got more orange in it.

Shit. It's autumn. Autumn's coming. How have I been here long enough to witness a season's shift? I pull the comforter over my head.

"Peekaboo," Viggo squeals.

We play for a while and I dig through the diaper bag and get us our cold breakfast of cereal and nut bars. I know it's stupid, but I don't want to go out there yet. I don't want to greet Charlie with an old-fashioned, "Good morning," as though we're not his freakin' captives.

I pull out toys to occupy Viggo and get ready in the little bathroom. All my clothes are filthy, so I'm stuck with the linen dress. Which is fine, but the fact that I'm going to have to ask Charlie to do my laundry—magically or otherwise—leaves a foul taste in my mouth. I try to scrub it away with stupid wizarding rosemary toothpaste.

Looking like garbage isn't generally appealing, but looking like garbage in a dress feels really off. I braid my hair and pin it around my head. Then I apply a little lipstick. I sigh and dress Viggo in baby blue-striped pants and a sweater with a chickadee embroidered on it.

I glance at my phone. "Mo food," Viggo says.

"Okay, baby." I pick him up and we walk out the door.

Charlie's reading in the chair, wearing green flannel and tight trousers and a _pair of glasses_. I want to scream. Why am I stuck with an impossibly attractive buffoon? Especially one wearing brown, browline spectacles that make me want to get a leg over right freaking now?

He clasps the book shut. "Hey," he says, jumping up. "You missed breakfast."

"We ate," I say, handing him my coin purse.

"What's this?"

"All the money I have left," I respond, walking into the kitchen.

"Uh—"

"Since you bought food for us.." Against our will, but whatever.

"Don't worry about it. I make more than enough, plus I'm getting paid for…" He pauses at the kitchen entryway, watching me roll up ham and cheese.

"For imprisoning us?"

"For your protection."

"Right." I sit Viggo in a chair, placing pieces of the roll-ups in front of him.

"I'm glad you've got some pocket change, though. Sirius has informed me that you're sick of dressing like a great-grandmother and I ought to take you shopping."

I nearly smile. "What a bastard."

Charlie blinks, his brow furrowed. "So you do fancy him. Huh."

"What gave it away?" I ask dryly. "The name-calling?"

"You just didn't scowl half as hard as you do with everyone else."

I catch myself mid-scowl in response and stop. "I like that he held me. Without expecting anything over it."

Charlie stares at me for a few seconds without blinking. "What?" I finally ask.

"Nothing." He turns away. "Soon as the baby's done, we'll go out, yeah?"

x

Charlie takes us to a couple shops downtown. I immediately love the area, with its red and grey brick buildings, its cobblestone streets, the ice-trimmed mountains surrounding us. I take deep breaths as we walk through and the feeling of imprisonment fades. Maybe all I need is some fresh air once in a while.

As I walk out of the second shop, Viggo in my arms, Charlie glances down at my hands. "Still nothing?" he asks.

"Well," I say, shifting Viggo on my hip. "I'm not really looking for robes or gowns. And that's all they've got, really. Do you know of any stores that sell more muggle-y clothes?"

"Well, where I get my work clothes has a lot of denim and stuff. But I thought you'd want something…" he shrugs. "Pretty."

"Really? You thought I'd like wearing ball gowns while in captivity?"

He exhales slowly. "Come on. Casual Witches and Wizards is this way."

x

Casual W&W (as the locals call it, apparently) is like the muggle-clothing supercenter, complete with a housewares section bearing levitating sales signs like "2 for 1 Cauldrons!" that follow you down the aisles. Unlike muggle supercenters, though, it's got a cozy aesthetic, lit with torches of orange flames, red velvet walls and a floor made of what looks like reclaimed wood.

"I have to try stuff on," I tell Charlie. "Can you handle him?"

Charlie eyes Viggo. "Uh—"

I hand him to Charlie, who holds Viggo out like he's a piece of radioactive waste. "Don't you have nieces and nephews?" I ask.

"Yeah, but I rarely see them."

"Put him on your shoulders." I place Charlie's hands on Viggo's legs. "Don't let go."

"Right." He looks around. "Now what?"

"Now you walk around some. And talk to him. Say things like, 'hey, Viggo, what color is this? And what shape is that?' And even if he just babbles, you say, 'wow, you're a clever boy.' It's easy," I add, which makes him look even more doubtful.

Viggo blows me a kiss when they walk off.

x

I've got an enormous pile of clothing that's all really, entirely perfect. Unbelievably perfect. Either all these clothes have minor sizing charms, or else I really am Mary Sue.

Unfortunately, my funds are limited. I grab my coin purse to see what my budget is.

"What the fuck?" I ask, examining the outside of it and looking back in. The purse is deeper on the inside. And wider. Like some Tardis shit. And it's _filled_ with coins, to the brim, whereas before, I'd only had a handful.

Fucking Weasley. Well, if he's getting paid to watch me, I ought to reap some reparations for my confinement.

So I buy all I want. Jeans, yoga pants, socks, underwear. Dresses, skirts, sweaters, a coat. Shoes and make-up and a decent hairbrush. Hats, mittens, hoodies for me and Viggo. MINT-flavored toothpaste and Dragon's Blood-scented deodorant. I stop by the groceries side of things and add raspberries and dark chocolate to the cart. Yeah, some of the shelves are empty, but I guess folks don't think fruit and sweets are necessary in potential war-times, which, more for me.

When I find the boys, I hold back a bit, bags in arms.

Charlie's sitting in a recliner in the furniture section, Viggo in his lap. He's got a wand in his hand and he's spinning Viggo like a top. Lift, spin, fall. Lift, spin, fall. Viggo is belly-laughing so hard, it sounds like he's forgetting to breathe. Charlie, too.

"Hey," I say, approaching.

"Hi there." Charlie looks up with a grin. "Wow. Bought the whole store, did you?"

"Well, someone certainly supplied me with the funds."

He looks away, scratching his head. "Can't imagine why. Considering you're such a pain in the arse."

I laugh. A real laugh.

x

"I was thinking we could grab a bite and then…"

We pass a store called The Owl Boutique and I immediately tune Charlie out. "Are they—is there—" I jump, trying to look through the glass. Yes. There are _owls_ inside.

"Owls!" I say to Charlie, eyes wide. He furrows his brow as I ask, "Can we see? Please?"

"Uh, I gue—"

I push open the door, Viggo on my back with a sticking charm. "Ooh!" Viggo exclaims.

"Can you say 'owl,' honey?" I ask.

"Owl," Charlie responds. I hit his arm as he laughs.

"Holy fucking shit," I breathe, ignoring the _harrumph_ of a woman in a real witch hat next to me. "They're so beautiful." I can hardly speak above a whisper.

They're all sitting on long wooden dowels, purring and hooting and occasionally ruffling their feathers. I walk around the room slowly, noting the full black eyes of the Mexican Spotted, the angry, light brows of the Spectacled, the deep-angled elegance of the Barn.

I stop in front of a tiny familiar, the Eastern Screech. "Hello," I say. She—as her card indicates—stares without blinking, the color of her eyes bright as yellow gold. "I love you." The owl cocks her head.

"Should've told me all you need to fall in love is a few orange feathers," Charlie says behind me. "I could've made a costume." I turn to him and can't help myself—I'm just so giddy—and I smile at him big. His mouth drops open but he returns the smile after a second.

I pick up one of the treats in a levitating bowl and give it to the Screech. "Here you go, sweet pea," I murmur.

"Mama." Viggo's trying to reach his hand out.

"We can't touch her, baby," I whisper. There are only about seven hundred signs saying as much.

"You know," Charlie says, rubbing his whiskers. "I've been meaning to get an owl. It's a bit of a bitch to get to the Owlery at the Reserve, especially in the winter."

"Really?" I say. "Can't you just apparate there?"

"Well," he says, stammering. "I mean, it's not quite the same to have your own. You still have to dress to apparate."

"Dressed? Do you catch up on correspondence naked, Charlie?"

His eyes widen, the slow creep of blush on the tips of his ears. "That's not what I—I mean-"

A saleswoman arrives to save him. "They're all housetrained. The smaller ones do take about twenty percent longer to arrive at their destination, but the recovery time is about half as much as the larger ones."

Charlie looks at me. "You love her?"

"It would be your owl," I say. "If _you_ love her is what's important."

"'Course I do," he grins. "She's a beaut."

"Magnificent," the lady says, clapping her hands together. "Let's set up the transaction."

x

Charlie carries most of the bags while I get the owl in her lovely brass cage, which Viggo picked all by himself. "I look like a first year at Hogwarts," Charlie grumbles. He glances back at me and I smile and he smiles and just we smile at one another like a couple of idiots until he almost runs into another wizard.

Dinner's normal-ish. Awkward at times, but Charlie doesn't piss me off and Viggo keeps our attention for most of it.

"What shall we name her?" Charlie asks, gesturing to the owl.

"I'd probably name her something really long, like Princess Leia or something," I say. "Viggo, what should we name the bird?"

Viggo curls his mouth, looking off in the distance. Finally, he looks up at us and says, very firmly, "Boot."

Charlie laughs. "Boot it is."

x

After I get Viggo to bed, I decide to make a cup of tea in the kitchen. As I wait for the water to boil, Charlie walks in.

"Snape wants me to keep giving you magic lessons. So, we'll start tomorrow, yeah?"

"Sure," I say, wrinkling my nose at the mention of Snape.

"Another thing. Ah, he wants to speak with you tomorrow as well."

"No." I pour the water in my tea, watching the curling steam tendrils closely.

"Sorry, Greta. I mean, Sirius tried as hard as he could to kick him off the case, but Anja's insisting. You know, she runs the whole security division of the reserve—"

"Shouldn't she protect it from men who leave nasty bruises on women, then?" I roll up my arm sleeve for emphasis.

Charlie winces. "Shite. I thought Sirius was exaggerating—"

"Of course you did."

He lets out a sigh. "Look, technically, he's my superior in this thing, and we've got to work together."

"Whatever."

He walks up next to me, trying to make eye contact. "We're all trying to keep you safe."

I shake my head. "I don't believe that for a second." If they were really trying to get me safe, they'd get me the hell out of Romania.

He bites his lip. "Greta. I don't want to fight. Especially after—" There's a loud knock at the door. "Ah, hold on."

I walk out, leaning on the entry way as he gets to the door.

I can't see the visitor over Charlie's gargantuan form, but from his reaction, I can tell it's not who I want it to be. "Farrah," he says. "Wow. You look—" he glances back at me, whips his head back at her. "Could you—would you mind putting your robes back on first?"

"What the fuck, Charlie? Who's in there?" She pushes him back, walking in. She's got strawberry blonde hair and perfect skin, much of which I can see from the peek of lingerie under her robes. I vaguely recognize her from the cafeteria. "Really?" She points at me. "With the Squib?"

"It's not like that," Charlie says. I scowl because of course, first he's going to deny it over defending me from Squib prejudice (even if false). Can't let decency get in the way of a good lay, am I right?

"Charlie," she says. "You told me two weeks ago you'd meet my parents when they visited."

"Yeah, about that," he begins.

"Hey Farrah," I say. "He and I are just housemates. He's not lying." Charlie clasps his hands together, silently thanking me. I glare at him as I walk to my room. "And you don't need to worry about anything happening," I add. "I'd rather eat lead than touch him." I shut the door.

x

After Viggo gets to sleep (again), I pull out my Mary Sue list to review. I scowl when I realize that, instead of checking more things off, I need to erase a check mark from number _2: People help me with no apparent motivation._ Because it's clear that everyone's only helping me to catch some Death Eaters. I know I can't blame them, but I fucking _need_ to be the Mary Sue of this stupid story. I've read enough fanfiction to know what happens to the non-Mary Sue New Girl- either she turns out to be bad or she's offed. And I know I'm _not_ the bad guy.

Next I break out my Love Triangle diagram. In the blank spot, I write _Sirius Black_. Next, I scratch out Charlie's name so hard, I rip the parchment a little.

"You see that, fanfiction writer?" I hiss. "I'm _not_ falling in love with that asshole. I refuse."


	10. Is it Triangular in Here or-

_TW: Brief, indirect references to suicide in conversation._

 _Also a bit of a lemon squeeze towards the end._

* * *

"Where's your girlfriend?" I ask Charlie when I walk into the kitchen in the morning.

"She's not—I don't have a girlfriend." He's pouring himself coffee.

"Do you just go around telling all the women you sleep with that you'd like to meet their parents or…?"

He groans. "Look. I'm not interested in talking about it, alright? Just—nothing. It's nothing."

"Fine." I grab a mug and set about making tea.

"Viggo's sleeping still?"

I nod.

He lets out an extended breath. "We should get to Snape this morning."

I nod.

"And we'll do your lessons when Viggo takes his nap."

I pour milk into my tea. And nod.

"Are you not talking to me?"

"I don't like talking to misogynists more than necessary."

He blinks. "I'm not a misogynist."

"Keep telling yourself that." I walk back to the room and I'm pretty sure I can hear him cursing as I go.

x

I throw Snape's door open without knocking, stomping and taking a seat in the chair in front of his desk.

"Ms. Riverstone." I imagine he thinks he sounds cheery.

"Professor."

"I understand you've taken up residence with Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes."

He stares at me without any emotion. "For the duration of your stay here, you are here to play a part, you understand?"

"Yeah," I say, shrugging. "I'm a Squib. I get it."

"I'm talking about your relationship with Mr. Weasley."

"What?"

"You and Mr. Weasley will need to feign a… romantic relationship. Starting now."

I laugh because honestly, that should be, like, the second square on Mary Sue Bingo. "There is no way—"

Snape hisses, standing. "Ms. Riverstone. As we speak, it is more than likely seven Death Eaters are on their way to kill you." I snap my mouth shut. "This… _case_ , as Black likes to call it—" Snape's sneer indicates his disapproval—"has gotten started on shaky ground. We need to get it back on its due course."

"How does me pretending to tolerate Charlie help with its _due course_?" I emphasize his accent like a professional.

"What, exactly, were you planning on telling the witches and wizards who ask about your recent… move?"

I shrug. "Say that we wanted to be housemates." Snape raises an eyebrow. "Because we… enjoy… each other's company so much?"

Snape just stares.

"Okay, maybe that we discovered that we're cousins and want to get to know each other more."

He continues to stare.

"Jesus." I bury my face in my hands. "How about, I'm a dom and he's my sub?"

Snape contorts his mouth and weirdly enough, it looks like he's wrestling back a smile. After he gets control over his face, he says, "You and Mr. Weasley, after a tumultuous start, have fallen madly in love with one another. You have decided, in the manner of foolish young lovers, to move in together within days of doing so. Am I perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly. But let it be known." I hold up a finger and say it loudly. "I am not falling in love. With anyone. Not even you, Snape."

He looks like he's tasted a lime. "How reassuring."

I make to stand, but he gestures for me to sit back down. "Yes?"

He clears his throat and looks almost… nervous? "Ms. Taren informed me, on the day you disappeared, that you were querying her about wizarding methods of self… slaughter."

Right. That's when I thought this whole ordeal might be like Inception, only I don't realize I'm dreaming, and wasn't there the part where Leonardo DiCaprio convinces his wife that they need to off themselves… is what sets them free? I'd asked Annette about how wizards get it done, deciding to forgo the idea immediately when I considered Viggo. No way in hell am I leaving him motherless. Even in a phantasmagoria such as this.

"When you went missing, we considered you'd sought that… resolution."

We stare at one another for a minute. "Well, I didn't," I say. "Ta-da."

"I simply thought, perhaps, I'd caused another…" he coughs. "Due to my unfortunate choice in words that evening. When you came to me for help. And I, ah. May. Have overreacted. Upon meeting you once more."

"Are you apologizing, Snape?"

He narrows his eyes, then nods.

"Well, I'll accept your apology on one condition."

"What condition?" He's flexing his jaw.

I smile. "You know what I'm going to say, right?"

x

 _Dear Annette,_

 _The Professor will meet you this Friday at 7:00pm in the entrance of La Mesa, the new tapas place downtown. He has informed me he will dine with you for no more than two hours. He refused to state he'd "seal the deal," so you're on your own with that._

 _Enjoy,_

 _Greta_

x

Charlie's version of spell class isn't as nerve-wracking as Snape's, but the results are the same. After about the tenth nothing that happens when I wave my wand and chant whatever he tells me too, he sucks in a long breath through his teeth. "How is Snape sure you're a witch?"

I shake my head. "I knocked the shit out of him with my wand."

Charlie leans back, tossing his own wand on the table. "Hmm."

I cross my legs. "It was probably a fluke, though."

"No. It's in you. Finding it. Is what you must do."

"Thank you, Yoda. Oh, by the way, Snape wants us to pretend to… _like_ each other"- I grimace- "so people aren't confused by our new and abrupt living arrangements."

"Yeah, I know. I got a note this morning about that."

"You know." He nods. "Why didn't you say anything, then? Why'd you make me hear it from Dracula himself?"

"Because," he says slowly, "I thought you might murder me if I told you we're to act like lovers."

I give a half-nod. "Fair point."

There's awkward silence for far too many seconds, so I stand.

"Wait," he says. I cross my arms. "Why'd you call me a misogynist this morning?" I furrow my brow. "I mean, my mum. She's a powerful and incredible lady and she taught all of us to respect women."

I sit. God, this is exhausting already. "How many women have you slept with in the last six months? No, no, rhetorical question. Just think about it. And now consider how many of them were aware of your interests."

"My interests."

"Your primary interest of a sexual… encounter."

"I'm not going to apologize for liking sex."

I shake my head. "Not what I'm asking, dude. I don't care if you fuck three different women a day. It's no one's business but yours. And theirs. But the question is, are you misleading women into thinking there's something more?"

His mouth forms a soundless _oh._

I put a hand on my head. " _How_ is this new information to you? _How_ is this not common sense?" I'm standing again. "And once again, I'm doing emotional labor for you."

"I don't know what emotional-"

"Books, remember?"

"I mean, I have books. I've read one already."

"Which one?" Oh, this is going to be good.

"Uh. Shite. I've forgotten the exact title. But it's by bell hooks."

My mouth drops open. "How-"

"My brother's best friend is a muggleborn witch. And a bit of an academic. I asked her to recommend some muggle books, like you said. She got so bloody excited. You should see the five-foot scroll she mailed in return, along with the _nine_ books she insists are necessary reading."

I snap my mouth shut and put my hands over my eyes, laughing. "I can't believe you're reading bell hooks."

"I quite like it. She's a smart lady." He actually looks like he means it.

I close my eyes for a couple seconds. "Look, I'm not great at explaining things. But emotional labor is when women manage the emotions and emotional relationships of men." I sit back down. "Like, to use your, ah, activities as an example. You should have the emotional intelligence to be upfront with the women you engage with. I'm sure you thought you were sparing their feelings at the time, when they said things like, _oh, I'd love for you to meet my parents._ But it's always better to be up front with that stuff."

"And now you're doing the labor of explaining it to me."

"Yeah. You got it. Though I feel less bitter about it now that I know you're making an effort."

He's lost in thought for a bit, then blinks slowly. "My mother arranges all of my father's dinners with his mum."

I nod.

"And she listens to him when he's got long bloody lists of complaints about his colleagues. But he completely tunes her out when she talks about chores that need to be completed or deciding on gifts for the grandchildren… and my sister's always explaining everything to my youngest brother with his relationships. Last time I was there, she even had a chart…"

I lean over and pat his arm. "This is promising." I stand for, like, the tenth time this conversation. "I'll get started on dinner." Before I make it in the kitchen, I turn and say, "Hey, when you're done with the books, tell me a favorite quote or excerpt or something. We could talk about it."

He nods and smiles. "Certainly."

x

"You know, Sirius is old."

I glance up at Charlie from brushing Viggo's hair as he nurses. I've got breakfast on the table next to me, apple cinnamon tea, life's not bad, and now this idiot decides to speak.

"How old is he?"

Charlie shrugs. "Forty-something."

"That's not old."

"No, not in general. But I mean, for dating. For you."

I roll my eyes. "Who said anything about dating?"

He hands me a slip of parchment. "Boot brought this in today. And before you get mad at me for reading it, it was opened and unaddressed, yeah?"

I narrow my eyes, unscrolling the message.

 _Songbird,_

 _Heard you've been calling yourself a prisoner. How about a little night on the town? I'll pick you up at six. Annette said she'd baby-sit- something about owing you? You'll have to tell me all about it at dinner._

 _Sirius_

I literally can't stop smiling like a fool. When I look at Charlie again, he's frowning. "I'm not sure you should go, Greta."

"What? Of course I'm going."

"No, I mean. Our pretense doesn't set it up for people to be seeing you with Sirius. Romantically."

"For fuck's sake. I'm not going to make out with him in the middle of Town Square. It's a _friendly_ dinner. Maybe _you_ don't ever have dinner with a woman without the promise of fucking, but trust me, lots of people manage it."

Charlie leaves the room without a word.

x

Sirius shows up at ten after. "Bad news, pet," he says to me. He gives me a once-over. "Holy hell."

I'd decided on a sweet turquoise sundress I found on our recent shopping spree, one that reached my knees but left a significant amount of exposed cleavage. I wasn't sure if it was fitting for our dinner, but judging from his reaction, it's, perhaps, more than fitting.

He sighs, leaning to kiss my forehead. "You look beautiful."

"What's the bad news?"

"Can't go out. Snivellus discovered our plans and has decided we can't be seen and risk your… betrothal with little Moose."

I groan and turn towards the kitchen. "Charlie! You told on us?"

"We're just trying to keep you safe," he says back, his voice terse.

I roll my eyes. Sirius is giving me a curious smile. "So now what?" I ask.

"Take away." He holds up a bad of something that smells amazing. "Ramen," he explains.

"Oh, god, thank you. Yes. Let's go in here. We'll have some privacy." Charlie's leaning on the kitchen opening. I give him a glare as I pull Sirius in my bedroom.

x

Sirius tranfigures the bed and a number of other objects until we have a cozy set-up of a whitetable-clothed, candlelit dinner.

I immediately pester him with questions. He tells me all about his Hogwarts adventures with his mates when he was a kid. He tells me about what it's like to be a wizard bounty hunter (being stalked by caramounts in the Banshee Desert! Having to wade through starlit muck in the Isle of Chess!). Finally, he looks up at me, a relaxed smile on his face.

"Tell me one of your stories."

"I told you," I say to him. "They're mostly boring. I'd much rather hear yours."

"Please, Greta." He grabs my hand. "Please." He makes a begging face.

I groan. "What do you want to hear?"

Sirius looks around, thinking. "Hmm. Tell me about that song your mum used to sing."

I laugh. "That's nothing. It's just a song."

"I'd like to hear about it."

"Well, she just used to sing it when I was in bed. A lullaby. The lyrics are about a little girl who's collecting apples, then dropping them. Makes no sense, really."

"Did your mum sing a lot?"

I nod. "Yeah, she was a folk healer. She'd heal people with her voice. That's what our little community believed, anyway. I mean, I know it sounds crazy-"

"It doesn't." His hand tightens on mine.

I pause, staring at his hand, then pull mine away. "You're just fishing for information for your case, aren't you?"

He raises his eyebrows. "We're having a conversation, Greta."

"Don't bullshit me, Sirius."

He sighs. "Right. I was just wondering if any sort of singing magic-"

"There's no magic, Sirius. She was a muggle. Trust me. All I said just now is the Mexican curandera shit that runs in my family. _Not_ magic."

He looks puzzled. "Cun-"

"Curandera. It means a healer. A shaman. Whatever."

Sirius raises an eyebrow. "Alright, Songbird."

"Don't call me that." I stand. "This date is over."

"Greta," he says. "Hold on. Before you walk off, there's something I need to tell you."

His tone is rather somber. I sit, crossing my arms. "What?"

He puts a hand on his head, wringing his hair back, then letting it fall. "The American Aurors found the body of Daniel Ramirez this morning. Or, rather, what was left of it."

I bite my lips. "Shit."

"It's not your fault."

"Well, if I hadn't called him, he'd be alive, right? That's a pretty clear correlation to me."

He looks me right in the eyes for a few moments. "You're a good person."

"You don't know me."

"I know enough. I do my homework, remember. Bounty hunter." He taps his head. "Margareta. Lovely name. Thirty years old. Mexican descent. Fiona Yamira, mother. Father, unknown, except for the surname Riverstone. You taught yourself how to play the piano when you were only eleven. People you grew up with said when you sing, it made their hearts slip onto the outside. Or maybe your voice just went that deep, naturally."

I'm livid. But I'm also crying. "I'm muggleborn, Sirius. If I'm even a witch at all."

"Your mother is a muggle, yes. But as for your father-"

"He's a muggle, too. Trust me."

Sirius gives me a sad smile.

"What else do you know about me?"

"You were accepted into Juilliard. Top muggle music school, or so my references say. But you declined, even with that enormous scholarship they offered you. You got a culinary education, worked some in restaurants. Married. While you were pregnant, your husband died in mysterious circumstances-"

"He was murdered," I say angrily.

"That he was." Sirius sips his wine. "And you're here now, brought into the wizarding world virtually overnight. We're not even sure how. But you've only known about us from books, yeah?"

I wipe my eyes. "Snape told you I'm batshit, huh?"

"You're not mad."

I look at him. "I'm not sure I believe you're real. Regardless of whether you are or aren't, how is that not mad?" I stand and grab his hand, pulling him up close to me. "I would've never kissed you the other night if I thought you were real. Or done this." I grab his hand, slipping it into my dress, under the cup of a bra.

He closes his eyes. "Songbird…" Despite the reluctance in his voice, he proceeds to pinch my nipple.

I press myself up against him. "Why don't you help me forget about it? All about the myriad of ways my life sucks right now?"

He kneads at my breast and I moan into his ear. Instantly, his hands are at my hips, lifting me onto the dresser. "I can't take advantage of you like that. But…" he kisses at my neck and I arch myself closer to him. "I suppose I could let you take advantage of me. Just a bit. To help you, as you say."

"Take advantage of you? In that precarious state you're in?"

"Exactly," he chuckles. He runs his hands down my body, then up my thighs, under my dress. "Is this alright?"

"I need a little more than that."

His hand finds my underwear, shoving it to the side, running up and down.. oh fucking God. "That good?" he asks.

I can't respond. My head is thrown back against the mirror. I moan as he flicks me with his fingers. I shriek when he slips a finger inside me. And before I know it, I rock on him, screaming, my legs curling around his.

He kisses me soft when I stop. When he pulls back, he looks guilty. "Fuck. I probably shouldn't have done that."

"I won't tell anyone," I say, shaking my head. Breathless.

"It's not that," he sighs. "I- uh, fuck. I need to tell you something."

"What is it," I say, pulling my dress down to cover my legs.

He closes his eyes for a moment. "Well, there's this witch I'm a bit in love with."

"You're in a relationship?"

"No. Not anymore."

"Well, that's okay then."

He whips his gaze on me. "It is?"

I shrug. "Yeah. No offense, but I'm not looking for anything other than a distraction right now."

Sirius shrugs. "Yeah, but you could get that anywhere, Songbird. In fact, I've half a mind to say our Moose has a crush on you."

I scoff. "He's just trying to get into my pants. Or was, at least."

Sirius laughs. "You just said that's all you wanted."

"Well, not with him."

"And why not? He's a striking young man." Sirius' eyes twinkle.

I scoff. "He's… he's infuriating. He speaks before he thinks and just when I think he might be decent person, he proves me wrong. He's great with Viggo, but, like, turns seven shades of red and goes out of his way to not look whenever I breastfeed as though he's never seen a naked woman before. Every fucking time." I jump off the dresser, smoothing my skirt. "And he eats too much. It's absurd how much food I have to make when I cook."

Sirius is staring at me with a queer, amused look like he's got a secret. "Do me a favor?"

"Hmm?"

"Take it just a bit easier on Moose. Now, I don't want you to tiptoe around him. When he fucks up, you keep on yelling at him like you do. But he's had a difficult six months or so. Just- remember that. Is all."

I nod. "I'll see what I can do."

x

Annette returns an already-sleeping Viggo at about nine. After I get him in his crib, I make a cup of tea, investigating the general feeling of heartache in my gut.

"Guess the first spell I really need to teach you is a bloody _muffliato_ ," Charlie grumbles behind me. "Think my family in England heard that romp with Black."

I stare at my tea. "It wasn't a romp. It was just a hand job. Not that it's any of your business."

There's a long pause. "He's head over heels with Luna Lovegood, you know."

Now I turn to face him. "Really? With Luna?" I pause. "I can kinda see that, actually."

He narrows his eyes. "You mean you don't care?"

"Why should I?" I ask.

He stares at me for a moment. "Just thought you were a long-term commitment kind of girl."

I roll my eyes. "Why? Because I was married?" The reminder of Luke makes my heart feel like it's ripped into several pieces. I sigh, closing my eyes, fighting tears.

When I open them again, Charlie's giving me a puzzled look. "What's the matter?"

I shrug. "Nothing." I turn to my tea.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"I shouldn't have fooled around with Sirius."

He's silent for so long, I wonder if he's left. Finally, he says, "I didn't mean to judge you. I was just surprised-"

"It's not you, Charlie," I say, exasperated. "I just haven't done anything. With anyone, not even my own hand, since before my husband got himself killed. Alright?" God, I'm fucking crying again.

Charlie's hand is on my shoulder. "Do you need anything? I have calming droughts. Firewhisky. I could hold you, if you want. Without… expecting anything, I mean. Only if you want, or are comfortable…"

I turn and am greeted with bright red cheeks. "Thank you for the offers. I think I just need to be alone, though."

He nods and turns.

"Before you go," I say. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for being a bitch to you. You know, for the times you didn't deserve it."

He gives me a half smile. "Those one or two times, eh?"

I laugh, wiping my eyes. "Yeah."

* * *

 _This fic got its first review! Wooh! Thanks, Mari Wollsch!_


	11. All Wand Hands on Deck

_TW: Brief references to miscarriage._

* * *

"Huh," Charlie says, licking maple syrup off his fingers. "Well, this is way better than I expected."

I'm a little distracted by the syrup drip on his bottom lip. "What?" I say, snapping out of it.

"Chicken and waffles," he says, grinning. "To be honest, when you said it at first, I thought I was going to be sick."

"Everyone underestimates the deliciousness of salty and sweet," I respond.

He eyes me for a moment, then asks, "Did Sirius give you a goodbye kiss?"

"No," I say. "Maybe I should've demanded one, though." Sirius is a really good kisser. Not as good as Charlie, though, which honestly, is such a waste of kissing abilities. I'd never tell him this, of course, so I instead ask, "How long does it take to catch a Death Eater again? Do you think he'll be back before the end of the week?"

There's an absurd knocking at the door before he can respond.

"That doesn't sound good," Charlie says, standing.

As soon as he unlocks the door, it flies open, revealing a livid Rune. Like, smoke ought to be coming out of her ears. When she sees me behind him, she looks as though she might spit fire all over us.

"Where the fuck have you been, Charlie?" she begins, her voice about as soft as rocks.

"Here."

"You know what I meant. Haven't been in the field in what, a week? That's a bloody record for you, even during the fucking holidays."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it bloody is. What's going on?"

"I took a leave of absence."

She's marching in, hands on her hips. "Why? And what's _she_ doing here?"

I sigh and sit back down, serving Viggo some more chicken.

Charlie sighs. "I never took time off after what happened with the Spices, Rune. So I am now. And Greta's… well, she's-"

"His special friend," I say, smiling sweetly, joining them. It's been clear for a long time that Rune thinks she's got some hold on Charlie, so I get a particular thrill from telling her this. After all, she did announce that I couldn't wash my hands in front of the whole cafeteria.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she growls.

I stand, approaching her. "It means we engage with one another. Coitally. Orally. Even anally."

Charlie's burst into laughter.

"What's so funny?" I ask, pretending to be wounded.

"Your candor. Let's just say that."

I smile back at him. "Thanks."

"Oh, you're quite welcome. Lover." He wags his eyebrows and winks.

This time I snort. I glance back at Rune, who's now shaking with anger.

"I don't trust you." Her finger points my way. "There's more fucking Aurors than Keepers on the Reserve. We're now being forced to check in when doing our bloody rounds off-hours. And everyone's whispering of some sort of long-lost Death Eater treasure being kept right here. And all this shite started when you arrived, Riverstone."

"Mama?" Viggo calls from the kitchen. "Mo chicken nanas."

"Look, that's a great theory you've got there," I say to Rune, walking towards the kitchen. "Be sure to let one of those Aurors know that a single mother Squib is the treasure they're all looking for."

From the kitchen, I hear Charlie say, "You heard her, Rune. Now if you don't mind. We're trying to have dinner."

She slams the door so hard, the pomegranate jelly on the table jiggles.

"What's with you and her?" I ask as soon as he sits.

"Used to go out." He shoves a whole waffle in his mouth.

"For how long."

He holds up two fingers.

"Two days? Weeks? Months? Years?" He nods at the last one, finally.

"What happened?"

"She got pregnant."

I gape. "And you _left_ her?"

"I know you think I'm despicable, Greta, but no. I didn't leave her. I just didn't want to be a dad."

"Oh. I see."

"I was twenty years old. Only been working here for two years. But she wanted the whole shebang. Family. Grandchildren. We had a big fight. She lost the baby that night. To this day, she blames me for it." He's drizzling syrup on another chicken strip.

"That's not your fault," I say. "That was just really shitty timing."

He takes an enormous bite of chicken.

"She still loves you."

"Rune? Nah."

I nod. "Why do you think she's completely obsessed with you? Sure, she acts like she can't stand you, but she checks in. Cock-blocks you. She doesn't like me because you showed interest in me. When we first met."

"Huh." He wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Well, I better be getting to bed."

"What? It's seven o'clock."

"I need a long bath."

I roll my eyes. "That's what I need, actually." But he's already gone.

x

The next day, I'm in the middle of making sandwiches for lunch when I check my phone for the time on the fries. My eyes land immediately on the date. September twenty-fourth.

I drop my spoon and it clatters to the floor.

It's a stupid reaction, really. Not like I've done anything at all for my birthday for the last couple of years. It just seem absurd that I missed it entirely. My own birthday. Granted, being stuck in a stupidly long fanfic seems like as good an excuse as any.

So I'm thirty-one now. Have been for a whole week, even. La-di-fucking-da.

I barely speak to Charlie all day. He keeps asking what's the matter. Finally, I bark, "Viggo and I have been stuck inside this cabin for days. We have _literal_ cabin-fever. Can't we, like, take a fucking walk or something?"

"Well, Snape wanted you in one spot for a bit. But, yeah, why don't you let me check-"

I'm about to scream when a wild, black-eyed owl swoops in through the kitchen window. "Boot!" Viggo squeals.

"I don't think that's Boot, sweetie." The bird drops a package at my feet and promptly flies away.

It has my name scrawled on it. I look up at Charlie. "Who's it from?" he asks.

"I don't know." I shake it and several objects thrum inside. "Do you suppose it's from Sirius?" I ask, my eyes lighting up. Charlie frowns immediately. "Sirius did mention he'd owl while he was away," I add, almost defensively. I open the package and stare.

Fingers. The package contains human fingers.

I put my hand over my mouth, placing it back on the floor.

"What is it, Greta?" Charlie rushes over, picking it up. "Jesus Christ," he says. He holds out his wand, muttering something. A mist flies out of it, forming a tall, fogged moose. "We got trouble," he says to it. The moose gallops away.

x

The door to my bedroom opens with a creak. "Greta?"

Charlie drops to his knees. "Hey, you still under there?"

"Ob-vious-ly." I do my best Snape impression to cover the tremble in my voice.

"You don't have to be afraid, you know. Everyone's here. Snape, Tash. You're entirely protected."

"Fuck you and your protection, Charlie. Tell everyone I said that, too."

He sighs. "I don't see how hiding under a bed is going to help. Death Eaters, they're-"

"I don't need you to explain it to me, Charlie."

He lies down so he can see me better. "I know no one likes to receive… body parts… by owl, but what is it? There's something else you're not telling."

I glare at him, but finally turn, looking up. "My husband was missing his fingers. When I found him after… after he was killed."

"Really." Charlie wrinkles his brow. "Shite. But Sirius, he dug a lot of that stuff up, investigating you. That would've been on some report."

"It wasn't."

"What?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Charlie. I looked at the police report afterwards. To see if…" I sighed. "Anyway, they neglected the missing finger part. When I asked them about it, everyone acted like I was insane."

Charlie puts his hands in the fine whiskers of his scruff. "Christ."

"Do you suppose Sirius will come back?"

He shakes his head. "He and Harry caught that Death Eater in Bulgaria. They're going to interrogate 'im."

"Is it Crouch?"

"No. One of his cronies, apparently." He reaches out. "We're going to get to the bottom of this, Greta. I promise."

I stare at his hand and turn away.

x

After my arms stop shaking, I join the others in the living room. "Greta!" Annette says. She's holding Viggo in her lap.

"Thanks for watching him," I mumble.

"Oh, it's no problem at all, dear. He's a doll."

Snape's sitting on the sofa, still as a statue. Finally, he looks up at me. "Nice of you to finally join us, Ms. Riverstone."

I roll my eyes as Annette smack's Snape's shoulder. He gives her a half- _smile_ which almost makes my jaw drop. Guess dinner went well.

"Black has done a very thorough investigation of your person," Snape says to me.

"I know."

"He discovered no magical blood on your mother's side, despite the presence of... singing talent."

"Okay. I could've told y'all that, but-"

"After he's finished in Bulgaria, Black is headed to Iceland to see what he can find on your… father."

I throw my hands on my head. "Why the hell does it matter?"

"The Death Eaters are looking for a witch with a long lineage of… power. Despite my doubts that you are who they seek, your display the other… day…" He glances at my arm, though it's covered with a hoodie. "Means we need to be certain you are not the one."

"Look," I say. "My dad isn't a wizard, either. He's just an asshole who abandoned us when I was a baby."

"Regardless-"

"Regardless, you're wasting your time. But whatever. You're just going to do what you want."

"Greta," Charlie begins.

"No," I say, cutting him off. "You're not going to tell me for the hundredth time that this is all for my protection, right? 'Cause if that's the case, why are Viggo and I still here? In Romania, where Crouch knows _exactly_ where I am?"

Tasha raises an eyebrow. "She's got a point. I've been saying the same thing-"

"Greta," Anja says, standing. I blink. Was she there the whole time? "We all know you don't even believe what's happening to you. So, to use your own words, why the hell does it matter if we keep you here or ship you to Australia?"

Well, that's a bit harsh. From the expressions on others' faces, I can see they feel the same. "I can still feel pain," I say. "And I don't want me or my baby to be tortured. No one wants to have a nightmare, Anja. Even if it's not real."

Her expression softens. "I'm sorry, Greta. I shouldn't have-"

"No, don't apologize. It's actually refreshing to hear one of you cut the bullshit."

There's silence for a bit, then finally Charlie asks, "Has anyone ID'd the fingers yet?"

"Not yet," Snape says, standing. "Ms. Doleson, a word. Now." Anja can barely look at me, but Snape does offer Annette a wink before they disappear into the floo flames. Now my jaw really does drop open.

 _Did you fuck him_ , I mouth, turning to Annette.

Her eyes twinkle. "Almost."

x

"Well, I think it's bullshit that they're keeping you here. But, honestly, Greta. You're in the best hands. They've got Aurors patrolling every _inch_ of the reserve, you've got Charlie here-" I make a face, which Charlie smiles at. Fuck that beautiful dimple. "And," Tasha continues, "I've spoken with the Professor and he knows you're going mental all cooped up with this git and he says I can take you out this weekend." Tasha wags her eyebrows. "Girls' night."

I almost scream with joy but then I remember who all might be included with the 'girls.' "Well, only if it's just you. I don't like anyone else."

"You mean you don't like Rune."

I wince. "Yeah. She's a little-"

"Volatile," Tasha finishes.

Charlie raises his eyebrows at me. "You and Rune have a lot in common."

"Oh, shut it." Tasha tosses a gluten-free biscuit at him. "By the way, this roast is amazing, Greta."

"Thanks." I fork a piece of carrot into Viggo's mouth.

"I could've taken you out," Charlie says. "You'd only have to ask."

"I told you the other day if we spend one more moment inside, I'd light my own feet on fire. And you _still_ didn't take the hint."

"Well, that was before I knew it was allowed-"

"Whatever. Shouldn't we go out anyway? Just so people can see we're a couple?" I make hand-quotations with _couple_.

"You could but you don't have to. Not for a bit.," Tasha says. "Everyone thinks you're inside by choice, shagging your brains out."

"Is that what they think?" Charlie asks, a slow grin spreading on his face.

"Well, they couldn't be anymore wrong," I announce, spreading butter on my carrots. Charlie's grin falls and Tasha's looking at the both of us very closely.

"What?" I ask.

"Mama," Viggo says, interrupting. "Boot."

"Oh!" I open the window to let her in. She lands on my shoulder, letter in hand, cooing into my ear. "Yes, love. Thank you," I say to her.

I untie the letter and open it.

 _Sorry this is late, dearie. Happy belated, Songbird. Sirius._

Spell-o-taped inside is a silver bracelet made of ornately-carved birds. Once in every few seconds or so, they ruffle their feathers. It's so pretty, I want to cry but stop myself, thankfully.

"And who is that from?" Tasha asks, grabbing the bracelet when I hold it out.

"Take a bloody guess," Charlie says dryly.

Tasha raises an eyebrow at him. They speak a strange language with their eyes, something I have no time to decipher. "Okay," I say. I grab their plates. "Dessert?"

x

That night, I keep Viggo in bed next to me as he sleeps. I push up and stare out the window, at the Beefcakes coming in from their rounds or wherever the hell they just were, shouting and hooting like a bunch of whippersnappers.

I keep thinking of that little brown box, all wrapped up like a gift, and the fingers inside. They were tan, the nails just cut.

Fuck Death Eaters.

I take a breath, startled by how it sounds- like a shudder. God, I'm shaking. I wait a few minutes, but it doesn't stop. In fact, it gets worse.

I lift up Viggo over my shoulder, barely managing the task. I walk to the door, stopping every so often because I'm freakin' convulsing now.

I knock on Charlie's door.

"Yeah?" he calls.

I open to find him sprawled in bed. He's got on grey pajamas and those devastatingly hot glasses and a blue book in his massive hands. And he's shirtless, which I can't even believe I'm even caring about now, but Jesus, he's more beautiful than I'd even imagined- just _chiselled_ , as though God carved his body by hand.

He's jumped up. "Fuck, what happened?" he whispers.

"I-I-" My teeth chatter.

"Did something happen to you?"

I shake my head.

"Are you cold?"

I nod, because that's part of it. Maybe.

"Here." He grabs his wand. "Warming spell."

"No," I say. He lowers his hand. "Bed," I grit.

His eyes widen. "Is there someone in your bed?"

"No, fuck." I take a few deep breaths, getting a hold of my body. "Can you please hold me?"

He stares, then blinks. Finally, he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." He pulls me to the bed, helping me in. I lay Viggo down by the wall side, tucking a blanket by him so he doesn't roll and hit his head. Then I plop down and exhale, my limbs sore and still trembling.

Charlie slides in next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist. "This okay?"

I nod and close my eyes, grabbing his forearm tight. I can feel him breathing and he's warm and safe and after a few seconds, I stop shaking. "Shit," I say, looking up.

"You okay?"

"I think so."

He makes to pull back but I grab him with my other hand. "Don't. Please." The weight of his arm feels so good. I don't know why.

"I don't know what happened," I finally say. "The fingers, you know? They were so real." I turn my head to his wheat-gold eyes. "My body was just… freaking."

He nods. "Happens to a lot of us since… since the war."

He sounds so lovely and concerned and I just want to feel more of him, like he's my security blanket. So I lean toward him, placing my head on his shoulder, turning his way. He lowers his arm to my waist, his hand on the small of my back.

"I don't hate you," I say.

He smiles. "I'm glad."

"Can we sleep here tonight?"

"That's fine. I might snore, though. Or so my brothers say."

I smile. "If you snore, I'll just smother you with your pillow, okay?"

He laughs, which shakes the bed, causing Viggo to whine in this sleep. "Sorry," he whispers, but he can't hold back. Finally, I laugh, too, into his chest. He mumbles something and the lights go out and he wraps both his arms around me. I stretch my leg back until I can feel Viggo and promptly fall asleep.

* * *

 _Thank you to Laree for my second review! Love your hot take._

 _So, the holidays are upon us, I've got family coming in, and we're moving to a new home. I'll probably be slowing down the updates for this fic for a week or so. However, I am working on a difficult part in an original manuscript, which means I'll be writing fanfic like crazy to avoid it, so I imagine I'll be able to pop out a few chapters successively after this brief interlude._

 _As always, thanks for reading! And, if you celebrate, have a wonderful holiday season._


	12. Of Oranges and Lemons

_This one gets lemony._

* * *

"What do you want to do for your birthday?" Charlie asks me the next morning. I watch him shamelessly as he dresses, pulling a shirt over his head. I inwardly lament over the loss of the sight of his sixteen-pack.

"It's not my birthday," I respond, turning away.

"It was recently. Apparently. According to Sirius' gift."

"Over a week ago. Even I forgot about it."

"That's not an answer to my question."

I face him as he buttons and zips up his trousers. "I want to go on a long hike in the mountains."

He winces. "I'm not sure-"

I groan, pulling a blanket over my head. "Don't ask if you can't deliver."

"Alright. Get dressed, then."

I pull the blanket down. "Really?"

He smiles when I smile. "Yeah. Go get dressed. Layers," he calls when I pull Viggo off my chest and run out of his room. "It's bloody cold up there."

x

I gawk at the trees like I've never seen any before.

They're tall and narrow and pointed at the top, like the most perfect sort to haul in for Christmas. But their colors are silvery-green mixed with hunter. I close my eyes for a few breaths as we climb. There are birds singing all around us and I can't recognize a single call, and for some reason, that makes it all the more beautiful.

I guess it's just been too long since I've been in, like, nature.

"There's an abandoned church up here," Charlie says. He's got Viggo bundled up on his back to give me a break.

"Which way?" I ask.

"Up to that birch, to the right."

"Okay. Meet you there!" I speed up to a moderate jog, even though the dry air burns my lungs. It just feels so good to _move_.

The church is made of crumbling stone towers covered in ivy. It's surrounded by a thin mist, and with the mountains behind it, I regret not having a camera. It's the sort of view that wins National Geographic contests.

I collapse face-up when I reach what I think is the entrance, watching the rolling ripples of clouds move in the sky.

"Mama!"

I lift up my head. "Told you she'd be here," Charlie says to Viggo.

He sets him down and Viggo runs to me, putting his hands on my belly. "Mama," he says, delighted. "Found you."

x

Though there's rips and holes in the stone walls, the acoustics of the church are still amazing. Our voices resonate all around, and there's an eerie hum when you stand right in the center. Moss grows along the ground so thick I wish I could take my shoes off and feel it barefoot.

"Used to come here a lot, about six months back," Charlie says finally. "This is the one place no one can really find me."

I look at him, taking a leaf Viggo's handing me. "What happened six months ago?"

Charlie sighs and for the first time since I've known him, a look of grief touches his face. As quickly as it comes, it leaves. "Three dragons. Pepper, Basil and Anise. We called them the Spices." He almost smiles. "Anyway, I raised them from eggs. Longhorns. A local breed.

"They got sick and we all thought it was the hax, which is sort of like the flu for dragons. Showed all the symptoms. Our dragon healer wasn't on hand, so I made the call to give them the potion."

He bends down, running his hands on the moss. When he goes fast, the green of it lights up in a brief but extraordinary glow. Viggo squeals and Charlie grins at him. "Well, anyway, we missed one symptom. A drying of the neck, so bad eventually, their scales started falling off." He clears his throat. "That first bit of dry skin, it was just so well hidden." He shakes his head. "Wasn't the hax after all. They'd been bitten by a rare species of erkling, one that snuck in afterhours."

He stands, looking at a jagged hole in one of the walls where a misted mountain top peers at him in return. "Took them a week to die, but by the way they went, it'd have been better it it had been instantaneous. If we had- If _I_ had _seen_ those fucking scales, though. Could've treated them, they'd still be here." He kicks a rock. "Anyway. I tracked and killed that bloody erkling with my bare hands."

My mouth drops open a little as I try to picture happy-go-lucky Charlie killing anything, even a bug. "Couldn't you have been bitten?"

He shrugs. "Snape tested the venom. Only affects reptiles, apparently." He glances at me. "Doesn't matter. They don't exist anymore." His voice echoes with the meaning between his words. "Not here, anyhow."

x

Charlie Weasley is a snuggler. Half the night, I awaken with his giant leg thrown on mine, or sometimes his nose jammed against the back of my neck, snoring like I imagine his dragons do. I knee and elbow him away, I made him enlarge the bed, I put a pillow between us. I still wake with some part of his body on top of me (even _that_ part on occasion, to which I say to him, "Get that _thing_ away from me," which he does, while saying, "It's morning, woman. Relax.").

"I thought you wanted for me to hold you," he says one night after I shove him to the side again.

"A little bit! In the beginning! This though, it's like you're trying to merge your body with mine in the most unsexual way possible." I close my eyes, waiting for the Beefcake-like offer of actual sex, but it doesn't come. Instead, Charlie grabs me and pulls me close to his chest, which I don't object to. I actually really like his chest, with its hard slopes, the thin spread of red fuzz, his small, brown nipples. I run my hand over his chest hair and he shivers.

"Where's this from?" I ask, fingering a silver scar on his ribs.

"Ah. An Opaleye. She had a nasty gash on her, I was trying to clean it up, and I guess she thought I deserved a matching wound." He chuckles.

"And this one?" I touch a smatter of scars on his arm.

"Fire. Not sure who did it. Had to break up a brawl, was a bit chaotic."

I run my hands down to a spidery scar on his hip bone, but he gasps, pulling my hand away. "Don't- don't do that," he says, his voice low.

"Does it hurt still?"

"Quite the opposite. Actually." Even in the moonlight, I can see his ears are red.

I snort. "Why do you act so bashful around me? It's absurd."

He looks at me for a while. "I don't know," he finally says.

x

One of the nights, Viggo awakens with a shriek. I groan, knowing this was coming after finding the bump of a molar pushing up his red gum. Charlie grunts, throwing himself up, wand out, like Crouch Junior himself just announced his arrival.

"Mama," Viggo wails. He inhales and does his pitchy scream, the one that shatters my ear drums.

"There, there," I whisper, walking to pick him up from his crib.

"What it is? Is he sick?"

I shush Viggo, bouncing him as I walk around. "He's teething," I say.

"All that for a bloody new tooth?"

I roll my eyes. "Just get back to sleep. 'All that for a bloody new tooth,'" I grumble, walking out the door and to the armchair in the living room. "Please rock," I say, pleasantly surprised when the chair glides back with my push.

x

"Greta." There's a hand on my forearm.

I open my eyes. Charlie, squatting in front of me. "Hey, let me." He grabs Viggo, balancing him on his chest. "Go to the bed."

"What?" I say, rubbing my eyes. "It's, like six or something. You should sleep."

"Go," Charlie says. Well, I'm not going to argue. I limp to his room because my leg's fallen asleep, falling face-down on the bed.

I sleep for three hours, staring blankly around his room when I wake up. Dragons, dragons everywhere. Moving photos and illustrations, books and a couple figurines. It looks like the room of a fantasy-obsessed child, not an… actual.. dragon.. tamer? Christ, I almost forgot where I am for a second.

I walk out of the room and find Charlie asleep, Viggo still snoring in his arms. I inhale sharply, shocked by how much my entire body warms at the sight. Charlie opens his eyes and gives me a lazy smile that honestly should melt my underwear right off.

"Here, let me," I say, grabbing Viggo. "Thank you."

"Not a problem." I settle back into the warm chair and wonder what it'd feel like if this experience were actually real. Would I still have these butterflies in my stomach? Would I still stare at Charlie's ass so hard as he walks away, I can see the cut of muscle through his pajamas?

Yes, I think, leaning back. Yes to infinity.

x

"So what's with you and Moose?" Tasha asks as we grab our beers at The Blue Dragon.

The place sounds way cooler than it is. It's dimly lit with really old tables and booths, but not old in the good way. Old in the dear-Lord-why-haven't-they-thrown-this-crap-out-way. The upholstery under my ass is ripped, the stuffing spilling out. There's really weird vintage photographs of wizard creepers on the walls. As I take my seat, some jerk wearing a bowler cap in a bronze frame says, "Nice tits, toots." Tasha does a _silencio_ for me on him.

"Nothing," I say after taking a long swig.

Tasha narrows her eyes. "Telling."

"What?"

"Took you a very long time to respond to my question."

I throw up a hand. "Charlie and I are in love, remember? We're eloping next week. I'm pregnant with his triplets. That what you want to hear?"

She gives me a look. "I want to know if you've fucked him."

"No, ma'am," I say, taking another hearty gulp.

"Good for him."

"Hey," I say, lowering my tanker.

"No, no, I mean, I'm glad he's not… I didn't mean it how it sounded. Just- Charlie's the sort of bloke who wears his heart on his sleeve."

I almost choke on my beer. "You're joking, right?"

She shakes her head.

"But hasn't he slept with half the women on the reservation?"

Tasha winces. "Well…"

"One of his fuck friends actually thought he was going to meet her parents!"

"Who? Jerica?"

"No. Not Jerica."

"Trinette?"

I shake my head.

Tasha sighs. "Right. He didn't used to be like that, you know. After he and Rune fell out, he was a single man for years. Maybe fooled around with a girl, what, twice a year? But six- no, seven months ago, we had an…" she takes a sip. "An incident."

"Right. He told me."

Her eyes widen. "He did? Fuck, Charlie refuses to talk to anyone about it. Hasn't even told his own family."

I throw up my hands. "Not sure what to tell you."

"No, anyway, he's turned into a bit of a…well, let's just say he's been a lot more promiscuous ever since."

"That's a kind way to put it."

A basket of fries is levitated to our table. " _Yes_ ," Tasha says, grabbing a handful.

"How do you look so amazing with the amount of food you put away?"

"I've got fantastic genes. My father's from Japan. Dragon keeping is very physical, too, you know."

I think of Charlie's ass. "I guessed as much."

"What about Sirius?" Tasha winks. "He's bloody hot, I'll tell ya. I've been aching for a tumble with that sailor."

I smile. "Yes, he's very attactive. But we're not like that. He loves someone else and I'm a mess." I finish my beer. "What about you? You with Isaac or-"

She scowls. "No. He's such a bastard. No, actually, I've been hooking up with this dragonologist named Mara."

I raise an eyebrow. "She a good lay?"

Tasha nods enthusiastically. "Merlin, that woman can suck a clit."

"I'm jealous. No one's mouth has been near my clit in some time."

Tasha smiles. "Say, last time Sirius briefed us, he said you were accepted to Juilliard?"

I groan and signal for another beer. "Yeah? And?"

"I'm amazed. My mother, she's muggleborn. Her whole family are musicians. I have a great uncle who went there, and it's, like, the pride and joy of the family. No one bloody cares I'm a dragon keeper, mind you."

I snort. "Well, I didn't even go. Not as impressive."

"How come?"

I get the vague impression that she's gathering information for Anja, but I'm already tipsy and this is all fake, fake, fake, so I say, "It's just a weird story."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. My mom, she was sick for a while and it fucked up her mind, you know? She had these visions. And one of them terrified her so much." I shudder, thinking of my mother, in her deathbed, eyes wide like she'd seen el Diablo. "She was convinced there was this evil woman after me. La loca, she kept calling her, which means crazy lady. And she made me swear that I wouldn't sing after I turned eighteen. Ever. Or else La Loca would find me."

"Shite," Tasha says. "That must've put you in a tough spot."

I nod. "Yeah, I really, really wanted to go to Juilliard, but I couldn't stop thinking of that. Of her, begging me. She's been right about lots of things, predictions, you know—"

"She had the Sight," Tasha says, nodding.

"Maybe. But you know, a crazy woman has never come after me. So she was wrong about that." I pause for a moment, wondering how different things would've been if I'd gone to music school. Would I have met Luke, had Viggo? Would I be talking to a _witch_ in a Harry Potter fanfic story? I sigh.

"Hey, didn't mean to get you down. We don't have to talk about it anymore, yeah? Let's get shots of firewhisky."

"Sounds good to me."

x

Charlie's cabin is dark when I get in. I brush floo powder off me, stumbling. I grab the mantle and giggle. Jesus, how much did I drink? I should grab water. Hydration and all.

Instead, I peel off my outer layers until I'm only wearing lavender hipsters and a black tank top. I push open Charlie's room, glancing to make sure Viggo's in his crib.

"Hey," Charlie says. He's got a small book light on and those underwear-evaporating glasses.

"What are you reading?" I say, leaning down to run a hand down Viggo's back. When I look back up, Charlie's taken his glasses off, his eyes firmly on the direction of my ass. "Stop that," I whisper.

"Sorry," he says, placing his things on the night table. "You're just— you've never worn anything like—" He drifts off and I don't even have to stare too hard to spot the blush.

"Move over," I say, sliding into the covers, making a face at the heat of his spot. The sheets feel like they've been sitting on a radiator all day. "Are you always so warm? Christ!" I make him switch sides with me, shivering when his legs and chest pass over mine in the process.

He looks like he has no idea where to place his hands— this guy has seen a scantily-clad woman before, right? I mean, come _on_ — and drops them at his sides eventually. I lean to him, into the warmth that is Charlie Weasley's chest, which, to be frank, smells like lemongrass and navel orange right now. Is that what he puts in his bath? I wonder if I can taste the oils. To test the theory, I run my tongue over a spot of skin on his pec.

He jumps immediately, goose flesh creeping up his torso. "Gods, Greta! What are you doing?"

"Sorry," I say, laughing into his shoulder. I try to speak, but I just laugh instead, wrapping my hand over my mouth so I don't wake Viggo.

"How much have you had to drink?" He looks amused and wary. Mostly wary.

A cry comes from the direction of the crib and I stop laughing immediately. "I'll get him," Charlie says.

"No," I say, pushing him back. "I haven't seen him in hours." I crawl over Charlie, stopping when I realize Viggo's no longer yelling. I stop and Charlie and I stare at one another, waiting for the call for Mama I'm certain is coming. But it never does.

Instead, a new level of staring occurs between Charlie and me. One in which we both realize, I think, at the same time, that I'm straddling him and I'm wearing just underwear for bottoms and… yep, that's an erection rising up to introduce itself to said underwear.

"I— Sorry," he stammers.

I shake my head slowly. "Don't be." I swallow. "You feel nice."

"Do I?" He raises an eyebrow and his chest is raising up and down a bit more quickly.

I nod and place my hands on his stomach, lifting up my pelvis. And I grind into him, gently, lining his cock right on my crotch. He gasps, grabbing my hips, steadying me.

"You're drunk," he says.

I bite my lips. "You don't want to." I sound deflated, which is embarrassing. Christ, he's right. I am drunk. If this were normal circumstances, I'd be hiding my actual reactions behind a flurry of insults. Instead, I'm practically begging for it.

He's looking very closely at me. "What about Sirius?"

I shake my head and I can barely speak above a whisper, because what I'm saying is so true, it hurts. "I don't want him. I want you."

Charlie looks stunned. After a moment, though, he seems to get his bearings, 'cause he grabs my hands and pulls me toward him, chest-to-chest. And he kisses me.

It starts the same as before— soft. His lips explore mine like he charts them, dots the constellations of where they pout out, the edges of my mouth, the dip in my top lip the makes them look a bit like a bow-tie.

Then he sucks that top lip in, gliding his tongue over it before dipping it into my mouth. I return the favor, tasting that orange I'd smelled earlier— must be his toothpaste flavor of choice. We kiss deeper and deeper, until our lips have done all they can, and then our hands take over.

Mine are on his pecs, thumbing his nipples, and his are on my ass, grinding me into him. He's needy and hard and I'm wet and whining and I don't know if any of this is a good idea but it feels good, so good, better than with Sirius because I actually feel something other than a desire to get off.

Charlie grabs my underwear and starts pulling it off when Viggo yelps again. We freeze and I break the kiss, lifting up.

"Mama?"

I leap off Charlie and grab Viggo, pulling him in my arms. Charlie watches me as I have a seat on the edge of the bed. I try very hard to ignore the erection waving at me no less than two feet away as I sober myself up the best I can.

This is not a good idea.

I stand, glancing at Chalie, not able to make eye contact. "Hey, I think Viggo and I should go back to the guest room."

Before he can respond, I walk out the door as quickly as I can, Viggo in my arms. I get one last look at Charlie before I shut the door.

It's weird. I was expecting him to be angry or frustrated. But no. Charlie looks sad.

* * *

 _I probably won't be able to update again until next week (my projection of binge-writing over the holidays was entirely too optimistic!). Thanks so much for the reviews and follows!_


	13. Oh, Brothers

I awaken to the dark blue of morning. It's cold and the bed feels massive. I guess I got used to sleeping with a freakin' human heater. I make sure Viggo's got plenty of covers before I leave the bed.

I make tea in the dim light, stopping when I hear a woman's voice. "Fuck, Charlie, I didn't mean it," she says.

"Just get out, Farrah."

"Christ, let me get dressed first, at least!"

There's fumbling and I hear her leave, the door shut about as loud as she could while making it seem like she was trying to keep quiet.

I swallow, staring at the steam pouring out of the tea cup.

I guess Charlie didn't stay sad for long, now, did he?

His dull steps slow behind me. "Jesus Christ," he says. "You scared me."

"Sorry."

"Uh." He coughs. "So you heard Farrah." It's not a question.

I shrug. "It's none of my business."

"Look, she's not— I'm not—we didn't- "

"Don't do this," I say, spinning around to face him. "You don't owe me an explanation. Okay? Last night— I was drunk. I'm sorry for hitting on you. It was a mistake. Obviously."

Charlie sighs. He looks tired as hell.

"There's something I don't understand," I add. "Why couldn't you wait to fuck her until after everyone stops thinking we're together? I mean, this is all part of Snape's elaborate plan to keep me and Viggo from getting killed, right? Unless that's what you do in relationships. Cheat, I mean."

"I don't cheat." His voice is firm.

"Well, Farrah better think that you just cheated on me. Otherwise our whole cover is fucked."

He runs his hand in his beard. He's been growing it ever since I told him I thought he'd look fairly hot with one. "She thinks you and I had a fight and, ah." He looks away. "That I wanted company."

"Good." I turn my back, pouring the honey into my tea. I don't look up to watch him as he walks away.

x

After Viggo gets up, I take him to the back porch with some toys and breakfast. After half-heartedly racing some of his wooden cars with him, I realize I'm moping like a sullen teenager. I refrain from kicking myself.

Stupid beautiful _Farrah_ with her long legs. I want to freakin' decapitate her. It's not like it's her fault but at the same time…

Wait a minute. It's not like what's her fault?

I don't want to know the answer to that. I can't.

I pull a paper out of my jeans and stare. The ol' love triangle. Sirius, Charlie, me.

It's not exactly a triangle at this point, is it?

Shut the fuck up, I tell the thought. Just go the fuck away. To further my point, I circle Sirius' name and write in big letters, PREFERABLE.

Take that, stupid thoughts.

x

I'm back outside with Viggo with our lunch. Charlie sticks his head out. "You gonna avoid me all day?"

"Just thinking," I respond.

He sighs and shuts the door. After a few minutes, I hear some hooting through the glass. I glance up and see Charlie looking worriedly in my direction before hugging another redheaded fellow. And another. And another. Jesus, is it the ginger convention in here?

No, that's right. Charlie has three thousand brothers.

Charlie gives me another glance of terror and I realize this can't be good.

I look around. Where the hell do I go? Hide in the woods until he can get them away?

I grab Viggo, but before I can slip away from the door, it slides open. "Well, well. What do we have here?"

I glance up to see one of the brothers. I don't know which. I take a step back, panicking. None of them look like they do in the movies!

This one's got glasses on. He's tall, taller than Charlie, with a wide grin. He looks at me up and down, then turns his head. "Oi! Charlie! Why are you hiding this beauty from us, eh?"

The man steps down, hand extended. "I'm Charlie's brother. George."

Okay. I know George. A little flirtier than I remember, but. I shake his hand and he bends in front of Viggo. "Hey, there little chap."

"This is Viggo," I say.

"And you are…" George stands, eyebrows up.

"Greta." I cough. I can hardly think. "Charlie's… um. Betrothed." Isn't that what Snape said he was? Jesus, no. That was Sirius. And Sirius was _joking_. Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god.

George's jaw drops. "Are you fucking kidding me? What, is this his kid, too?"

I shake my head. "No, uh—"

George interrupts me by bellowing through the slit of the open door. "RON! BILL! YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS SHITE!"

Ron and Bill, I presume, rumble toward George and everything's a blur.

"Engaged?"

"Charlie, fuck, when were you gonna tell us, mate?"

"Not like we're FAMILY or anything."

"Mum's gonna go mental. No, she's gonna DIE. After she kills you. Not you, sweetie, Charlie, I mean. She's gonna love you."

"And the baby?"

"Not his."

"You sure about that?"

"Alright!" Charlie says, his voice harsh enough to cut through everything. He glares at me. "Will you lot please leave my…" he clears his throat. "Will you please let Greta and I have a moment? Yeah?"

There's some grumbling as the three brothers go inside. One of them, Bill I'm guessing, squeezes my shoulder before the door slides shut.

Charlie turns to me, his back to the glass where all the brothers keep glancing at us. "Engaged?"

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

Charlie throws his fingers in his hair. "Jesus Christ. Snape is not going to like this."

"Can't you erase their memories?"

Charlie gives me a look that's half-incredulity and half-amusement. "You want me to _obliviate_ my brothers?"

I give a half shrug and Charlie exhales with a smile. "Hey," he says. "Did you do something to my chair in there?"

"What?" I furrow my brow.

"It rocks now. It didn't before."

I vaguely remember commanding the chair to rock when Viggo had his tooth-cutting pain. "Oh, yeah," I say.

Charlie's grinning now. "You did it, didn't you? With magic."

"I mean, I didn't open it up and add springs to it."

Charlie's still smiling and he pulls me and Viggo into his chest. "There's hope for you yet, Greta."

"Wish I could say the same about you."

He pulls back with a frown. "I didn't fuck her."

I blink. "That's not—"

"Any of your business? Regardless. I wanted you to know." He kisses my head. "Come on. We've got to convince my brothers you don't want to turn me into a toad and feed me to the dragons."

x

I don't know what to think of Charlie's claim of not fucking Farrah. I mean, she did have to put her clothes on before she left. And she was fucking _there in the first place_. In his room. Alone. With him. Alone.

Stop. It. Greta. He's not yours. Or even _real_ , for fuck's sake!

I turn my attention to the living room, where the brothers are all chatting up a storm. "So, you and Charlie," Bill says, sitting beside me on the sofa. "How long has this been happening?"

"Oh," I say, waving my hand like this is all normal. "A couple months."

"A couple months and you're already engaged?" Bill asks, raising an eyebrow at Charlie.

"Oh, we've been engaged for a couple months," Charlie says. "We've known each other for… ah..."

"If we count since when I first learned about the existence of Charlie," I say, "then we've known one another since I was nine years old."

It's crazy how each brother tilts his head the same way, the same angle, that same left eyebrow raised just a touch. "That's a bit confusing," Ron finally says.

"Right," Charlie says, clasping his hands together. "Who's hungry?"

x

"Since you were nine?" Charlie says in my ear when we're in the kitchen.

"That's when I first read the books," I hiss. "The first three, anyway."

"Right." He pauses. "This is going so much worse than I thought it would." He leans against the wall.

"You could always obliviate," I say in a sing-song voice.

He smiles. "I'm beginning to think that's actually not the worst idea."

"And why would you obliviate us, eh, Charlie?" George saunters in, smacking his arm around Charlie, who definitely looks 'caught.' Jesus, who thought he would be a good addition to the team of me versus Death Eaters? Charlie can't lie worth a damn.

"He doesn't want your mom to murder him," I say quickly. Charlie looks unbelievably relieved.

"Let me tell her about Greta and Viggo. Please," Charlie says to George, who makes a zipping motion over his lips.

"Don't worry, big brother. And I'm sure Bill knows well enough to keep quiet. It's not us you have to worry about, really. It's—"

"Ron," Charlie finishes. "Bloody blathermouth."

"Who's calling who a blathermouth," Ron says, walking up, Bill close behind with Viggo.

"Alright," I say, pushing Charlie out. "You all are cramping my style. Get out so I can cook. Idiots."

"You know, I quite like her," Bill says as I shut the door.

x

Charlie wanted to introduce Bill and Ron to chicken and waffles, so that's what I do. I make about triple than what I'd normally make for five people and a toddler. I mean, if they eat like Charlie does, that might not even be enough.

"Bloody hell," Ron says as I place a mountain of fried chicken on the table. "Christ," he adds when I add several sky-high piles of waffles. I set out sliced strawberries and syrups and whipped cream. Ron makes a squeaking noise for that bit.

"I think Ron just creamed his pants," George says.

"Has he never eaten before?" I ask.

"Shut up," Ron says, his mouth already full.

"This is bloody good," Bill says after a while. "This an American thing? This combination?" I shrug and he adds, "You'll have to tell our mum about this one." Charlie chokes as Bill continues. "I think this is the sort of meal we'd end up fighting over the last bite for. She loves that."

"Makes her feel loved and shite," Ron adds. "When you introducing her, Charlie?"

"Soon," Charlie says, his voice gruff.

Change subject, change subject! "So what are you all doing in Romania?" I ask, handing Viggo a waffle.

"Well," George says. "Haven't heard from dear brother in a bit. Normally doesn't bother us much. I mean, we're used to it. But bloody Mum was working herself into madness. 'Has any of you heard from Charlie? It's been three weeks since his last owl!' After a month of that—"

"We popped on by," Ron said. "On our way to pick up some potion ingredients for the shop. Stuff you can't just owl over."

"Where from?" Charlie asks.

"Budapest," Bill says. "A friend of mine's raising blue bloodleaf. These two want to make lust potions—"

"The blue sort is a lot safer than the red," Ron says, his mouth so full I barely understand him.

"Well," Charlie says. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you need. Transfigure beds and all that."

"I call the guest room," George says.

"What?" Ron says. "You called it last time. Fuckin' greedy arsehole."

Charlie makes a face like an apology to me. "Actually, Greta—"

"-is fine with it," I finish. I narrow my eyes at Charlie, daring him to say something.

"You know, I quite like her too, Charlie," Ron says. "You're good for him, Greta. You're both bloody weird." George smacks him on the head. "Fuck! What was that for?"

x

At exactly five o'clock, Charlie busts out the firewhisky. "Here we go," Bill murmurs as the bottles float to the coffee table, soon followed by shot glasses.

"Greta? You in?" Charlie asks.

"One," I say. It's been a hell of a day.

The moment I throw it back, the floo fire makes its long wooshing sound and Snape appears, his robes snapping behind him.

"Professor Snape!" George jumps up to take Snape's hand. "It's been too long, brother!"

Snape narrows his eyes in response. He pulls his hand far away from George and turns to me. "Ms. Riverstone. A word."

"You're just gonna leave me hanging like that? That's not right, Professor!" George calls.

I try very hard to not roll my eyes as I follow Snape to the dining room. He discreetly adds a silencing spell, (I can start to tell this wandless crap now), and turns to me. "We've identified the… fingers." He pulls the 's' out just a little too long.

I wonder what Snape's like when he drinks firewhisky. Does he still pull that snake-pronunciation crap?

Right. Fingers. I sit. "And?"

"It appears they belonged to your former landlord."

I let out a sigh. I mean, not that it's the best news. I was just scared they belonged to Luke. But this means Luke's fingers are still out there, somewhere. I don't know what's worse, to be honest.

Right. What's worse is being in a HARRY POTTER MIND FUCK TO BEGIN WITH.

Jesus. I already need more liquor.

"Is there any news on Sirius and Harry?"

"Nothing that I can share with you at the moment."

I bite my lips. "So. I'm still in danger. Charlie's still my lover. All that's still the same?"

"Indeed."

He remains standing and I don't know what to say. Am I being dismissed? Do I pat him on the back and say, thanks for the finger info, man?

He clears his throat and his eyes dart to where the brothers are. They're floating Viggo up and slow-motion bouncing him from brother to brother. Viggo loves it, but I can't watch that shit. It makes my stomach flip-flop to see my kid so high in the air, unsupported.

Snape mutters a spell, one I can't make out, then, to my shock, has a seat beside me. "I believe, Ms. Riverstone, that our team has been… infiltrated." His words are clear and deep though he barely moves his mouth.

I blink. "Who—"

"I'm not certain who. Though I have my suspicions."

I swallow. "Not Charlie—"

"No."

Okay. Well, that's something, I guess.

"Ms. Riverstone, let me be perfectly clear. From this moment, you are to trust me and Weasley and no one else. Do _not_ share any information, new or old, with anyone besides Weasley unless you have consulted me first."

"Okay," I say, immediately thinking of Sirius.

"That includes Black."

I wrinkle my nose. "It's rude to read minds, you know."

"It's rude to think so loudly, Ms. Riverstone."

Suppose I was thinking of Snape's dick? Would he know that, also?

Jesus, Greta. Don't think of Snape's dick, don't think of Snape's-

"How's your day going so far?" I blurt.

He narrows his eyes. "Splendidly."

I smile immediately. "I like the way you say that. Can you say it again?"

"No." Snape's eyes ever-so-slightly sparkle. Jesus. He must've gotten laid recently. I'll have to ask Annette about it.

"You have a very nice voice. Anyone ever told you that?"

He blinks, putting on a scowl.

"You'd be a fantastic sex-phone operator."

Snape stands. "I will be on my way now."

"Hey, Professor," I say. "You stayed exactly thirty-five seconds longer than you needed to for that conversation. You like me."

"I feel no such thing," Snape snaps.

I follow him to the living room. "Admit it, man! I'm the daughter you never had!"

The brothers all glance over at us as we approach. Ron tilts his head in bewilderment, everyone else looks amused.

George grins as he leaps up, offering Snape a shot, which is promptly ignored. "Aw, come one Professor! Just a half a sip!"

Snape hits him with a stinging hex before disappearing into the flames.

"Still a sodding git, I see," George mutters, rubbing his chest.

x

"Hey," Bill says, opening the sliding door. "Mind if I join you?"

"Sure," I say. I'm sitting on the swing, Viggo asleep on my shoulder. Bill sits beside me, leaning back. We say nothing for a while, just watch the pink and orange and purple of the sunlight disappear behind the mountains.

Finally, Bill speaks. "Things aren't what they seem with you and Charlie, are they?"

I snort. "What gave it away?"

"I can read lips fairly well."

"Oh." I guess he must've seen some of my little meeting with Snape, then. "Fuckin' Snape. I thought he was a freakin' amazing spy."

"He is. He just thinks all Weasleys are idiots."

I smile.

Bill inhales slowly. "This has got to do with those Death Eaters on the loose, doesn't it?"

I shrug. "Maybe."

"You can tell me, Greta."

I swallow, looking at him. If Charlie's rugged-handsome and George is approachable-handsome and Ron is goofy-handsome, then Bill is. Well, he's angelic. Even with the grey scars scraped across his cheek. His facial features are completely symmetrical, his eyes bluer than Romanian mornings. No wonder he scored a Veela woman.

"Snape told me I can't say."

Bill nods. "Right. I can respect that." He leans back, looking at the mountains. "It's clear Charlie has feelings for you."

I bite the inside of my cheeks. Hard.

"Don't hurt him, yeah? It's been a rough year for him."

"He told you?" I pause, not wanting to give it away if not.

"About the Spices? Yeah."

After a few seconds, I say, "It wasn't his fault."

"I know," Bill says.

I fold my arms over my chest, thinking of Farrah. "And maybe you should tell him to not hurt me while you're at it."

Bill furrows his brow. "What'd he do?"

"No one," I say. "Nothing."

Bill looks at me for a long while before standing up. He places his hand on mine, giving it a squeeze before returning inside.

x

After a dinner of greasy pizza, everyone seems to be lazy-drunk. Ron and George are sprawled on the sofa, Bill looks half-asleep on the recliner. Charlie's transfigured one of the dinner chairs to a rocker, where he holds a dozing Viggo.

I grab Viggo from Charlie, who smiles at me with that dimple. I give a half-smile back, but look away quickly. It's stupid, but all I can think about is Farrah's gorgeous, tight body. And how my belly is covered in light stretch marks. And my thighs jiggle. And the spots of cellulite on the side of my hips.

It's stupid. It's the firewhisky. But I can't help but think of her, and when I do, there's a knife in my stomach and I can't.

Charlie grabs my arm as I go, his face looking rather remorseful. "I'll be in bed," I say. I murmur goodnight to the brothers and make my way to Charlie's room.

I fall asleep quick, but when Charlie slides into the bed, I blink my eyes open, wondering if he'll touch me.

After a minute, he places a hand on my back, very high. Safe.

I turn over. His face is almost unreadable, but he looks the faintest bit unsure.

"Before my birthday a few years back, Luke took me antiquing." I'm not sure why I'm telling him this, but I can't seem to stop. "Mostly junk antiques, you know. Old black irons that you'd heat over the fire and rusty hubcaps and chandelier pieces. That sort of thing.

"I found this brooch that was just. So pretty. Pretty in a creepy way. Like it reminded me of something I barely knew but something that was like, inside of me. Hard to explain." I lean my head back on the pillow. "Green with emeralds. A snake, actually, with these ruby-red eyes." I chuckle at the face Charlie makes. "Like I said, creepy. In a pretty way."

"That brooch cost a fortune. Like, we could never afford it. Luke, though, he found a way to talk them into it. He, ah. Did a big trade. Traded his fucking _car_."

I shut my eyes tight. "He thought I loved it that much. I'd have never let him do it, but he thought I wanted it. And I feel so stupid, you know, going nuts over a piece of shitty jewelry like that. 'Cause that's what they were looking for, you know. The men who killed him. They wanted the brooch.

"He didn't even have a chance. I was wearing it when he died. We had a stupid, giant fight about him trading his car. And I went to the concert alone. Wearing that stupid, ugly, beautiful brooch.

"If I hadn't—" My voice breaks and Charlie's arms are on me, pulling me close. He doesn't say anything and that's what I like best about this. We both know that on some level, this shit is our own fucking fault. We don't have to pretend otherwise.

I sleep well. And I think he does, too.

x

Charlie and Bill are talking low in the living room when I make my way to the kitchen for tea the next morning. They stop talking when I pass and mumble a "Good morning" their way. Bill smiles, but Charlie's looking off in the distance, his eyes on the sliver of gold on the mountains.

I make bacon and eggs and cut fruit. Toast spread with butter. The brothers all wander in, one by one, red hair smashed in varying directions, their eyes half-lidded.

"Why'd we drink so much," Ron moans into his plate.

George lays his head on the table. "Why do we even drink at all? Why do drinks exist?"

"Jesus," I say.

Bill's shoulders shake as he silently laughs. "Wish I could say I haven't had to deal with this regularly back home," he remarks. He pulls a couple of vials from his robe pockets and hands them to Ron and George. They toss them back and it's amazing. It's like the light returns to their faces.

Ron grimaces at Bill. "Waited long enough to offer those."

"Just wanted you to wallow in the consequences of your choices for a few minutes. Like any decent oldest brother would."

"Decent?" George scoffs. "More like sadist." His tone is all love, though.

The brothers thank me for all the food as they put on their robes and edge to the floo. They give Charlie big hugs, shake Viggo's hand, pat me on the back. Bill offers a hug. He squeezes me tight before they go. They disappear into a cloud of floo powder.

Charlie turns to me after the floo stops whistling. "Why'd you tell Bill about Farrah?"

"What?" I shift Viggo to my other hip. "I didn't tell him shit about her."

He stares at me for a bit. "You know, you could just tell me that you want to be with me."

"What? And lie?" I glare at him before stomping into the kitchen. I place Viggo down with a plastic spoon as I start the dishes.

"Let me," Charlie says, grabbing pan from my hands.

"Whatever."

Charlie bangs the pan into the sink. "It's Sirius, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That's why you won't let me in, isn't it, Greta? You're still—" he makes a wide gesture with his hands. "You know. With Sirius."

"I just don't like guys who use women for their own sexual gratification."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Charlie says, pointing a spatula at me. "You're the one who kissed me the other night. Told me you wanted _me_. Not him. Me."

I scoff. "And I told you that was a mistake! Jesus! Get over it!"

"Why should I get over it when you haven't? Otherwise you wouldn't be telling on me to my brother like a bloody child."

I grab Viggo. "I don't need this shit." I walk out.

"Keep running from the obvious, Greta. That'll really help."

As soon as I get in the guest room, I grab a pen and parchment.

 _Tasha,_

 _Please get me out of here. I'm going to murder him, I swear._

 _Greta_

Not thirty minutes later, Boot brings her response.

 _G—_

 _Coming to save you. Give me an hour. Wear something sexy._

— _T_

* * *

 _So sorry this is way later than I intended! I finished a novel and my brain was totally fried for a bit. I could do nothing but read and Pinterest for nearly two weeks. But I'm still here and updating! Thank you all so much for the follows and faves and reviews._


	14. Somewhere Good

I have no idea what Tasha means by 'sexy,' but it's a little chilly out so I interpret it to mean tight jeans, a green sweater with a plunging neckline and a thin scarf. I slip on my boots and let my hair out. Line my eyes with bronze and stain my lips with terracotta.

I sure as flip am not leaving Viggo with Charlie— not that he's bad with him. In all honesty, Charlie is amazing with Viggo. Not that I'd ever tell him. No, right now I just don't want that asshole to _owe_ me anything. Not even a baby-sit.

I dress Viggo jeans a pale blue sweater covered in a pattern of white knit stars. "Tars!" he exclaims, pointing at his belly.

"Stars," I say. "O estrellas." I should be trying to teach him Spanish way more often. Keep up the tradition and what not.

"Eh. Bellas."

"Close enough."

x

"Where do you think you're going?" Charlie barks when I have a seat in the living room to slip on Viggo's shoes.

"What are you, my dad? Calm the fuck down."

Charlie glares. "I'm in charge of your safety. Yours and Viggo's."

I roll my eyes. "We're going out with Tasha."

"Why?"

I throw up my hands. "Why does it matter?"

Charlie's jaw tightens. "I'd like to be kept informed of your activities. As your assigned guardian."

I stifle a groan. "Tasha's taking me us out for lunch. She's got rounds or whatever so we won't be out long."

"Thank you." Charlie turns to walk back to the kitchen. His tone is so _fucking_ sarcastic I want to throw something at him. Preferably sharp.

I realize I'm practically grinding my teeth. I unclench my jaw and say, before he shuts the kitchen door, "Why don't you invite Farrah over while we're gone? Get in your daily fuck quota before I get back."

He just stands there, frozen at the door, until he finally shuts it with a bang.

x

"So what's the matter?" Tasha asks as we view the menu at the diner. "Is it 'cause you guys haven't fucked yet?"

Some of the ice water I'm drinking goes down the wrong way. "What?" I choke out between coughs.

"Oh, come on. I almost tripped over the sexual tension between the two of you today."

"Please," I say after catching my breath. "He has sexual tension with everyone. That's Charlie's thing."

"Well, he doesn't have it with me," she says, turning a page.

"You mean you never fucked Charlie?"

She snorts. "No fucking way. If I'm going for a Weasley, it's definitely going to be the elder."

"Bill?"

"Yeah. Have you seen him? Godric. That man is sex on a broom."

I laugh. "Yeah, actually. I know what you mean. He was there yesterday."

"He was? And Charlie didn't owl me?" Tasha groans. "Fuck. He knows I want Bill."

"Isn't Bill married?"

"Engaged, I thought. Or married. Whatever."

"How are things with…. Mara, was it?" I ask, giving Viggo a sip of my water.

"Ah, fizzling, I think. She's dating someone else."

"Oh, God. Sorry to hear that."

Tasha shrugs. "It's no big deal. She knows I'm not interested in anything serious. I'm gonna miss her fucking tongue, though." She sighs. "I think I'm going for the spinach and feta omelet, what about you?"

"That sounds good, actually. I'll do the same." I turn to Viggo. "Chicken nuggets or pizza, kid?"

He grins, a drip of drool gliding down his chin. "Chicken nanas."

After our food arrives, Viggo decides he'd rather have my bacon. Naturally. I begin the task of cutting it into miniscule pieces when Tasha exclaims, "Oh, look! Anja's here!"

I turn in the direction she points. "Oh," I say. I know I don't sound excited. I mean, the last time I saw Anja, she literally asked why it made a difference whether I was more accessible to Death Eaters or not, considering that I'm a madwoman. But I digress. Anja sees me— or maybe Tasha— and she gives a wave. Her eyes don't match her mannerisms, however. She looks distant.

She touches the shoulder of the man she's with and now they're both looking our way. "Who the hell is that?" I ask.

"Beats me." Tasha shrugs. "Looks like we're about to find out. They're heading this way."

"Hey there," Anja says, walking up. "May I introduce Inspector Arolde Beech? He will be staying with us for the next two weeks. Inspector Beech, this is Natasha and Greta. Oh, and of course, baby Viggo."

Beech offers his hand to Tasha, then me. He's pale with a baby face and a thick moustache. He's impeccably dressed in a burgundy four-piece suit and he carries a walking stick in his left hand. "Charmed," he drawls, his eyes the color of sand, unblinking.

He stares at me for a good five seconds before Tasha clears her throat and says, "What sort of inspections are you working on, Inspector?"

"All of them," he responds crisply, never taking his eyes off me. He glances at the wand in my hand. "Where, pray tell, did you get this wand, Ms. Riverstone? It looks rather… unusual."

 _Shit_. "It's my boyfriend's," I say quickly. "I mean, it's no use to me, I'm a Squib, you know, no magic and all. But he forgot it this morning and I'm going to drop it off to him before we head back."

"Intriguing," he murmurs, gliding a finger on the shaft of the wand. I can tell he doesn't believe a word I said. "I haven't seen a wand like this one in some time. One of folk origins."

"What does that mean?" I ask, but before I even finish the question, Beech snaps his hand up and nods to Anja.

"We're in a bit of a hurry, aren't we, Ms. Doleson." The way he says it, like a command. It's just so _off_.

"Right, right," Anja says, her eyes widening. "Good to see you girls."

They positively dash out. All I can think about is Snape's warning to trust no one.

"Well, that was weird as fuck," Tasha says.

I grimace and push my plate away. "I know."

x

I step inside Charlie's cabin, Viggo asleep in my arms. I walk and place him in the crib, pulling a blanket up to his shoulders. He pushes the blanket off and rolls over. I sigh but smile. This kid has always wanted his arms out, even when he was an infant, fighting the nurses as they tried to swaddle him.

I expect to find Charlie eating his way through the fridge or something, but he's nowhere— not in his room or the dining room or the restroom. I feel an unwelcome lurge in my stomach.

"Charlie," I call, not wanting to wake Viggo.

As I pass the back door, I freeze at the sight out the glass.

There, _right fucking there_ , out in the woods, is Charlie Weasley chopping _firewood_. By hand. With an ax. Shirtless.

My hands, the both of them, traitorously reach out in longing.

And Good God, is this everything I thought it'd be. Not that I'd ever considered how one procured firewood in the wizarding world. Honestly, if I had, I'd just assumed that folks just slice up wood with their wands or some shit like that.

But _there_ , his _massive_ , cut arms, his _smooth_ , round pecs, his _abs_ , everything all hard and sweaty and freckled-tan, lunging up with that ax, and _pounding_ down as wood flies in several different directions.

Quite honestly, he's going at the wood like it's someone he wants to murder.

Or fuck.

I can't ruminate too long on it. I'm having a hard enough time not shoving my hands in my jeans to rub one out to this, _this sight_.

What do I call it? Sex fantasy; exhibit A?

Jesus. I need to distract myself.

I turn and pull a paper out of my pocket.

 **Mary Sue Signs**

 _1\. Everyone wants to have sex/ falls in love/ is obsessed with me for no reason. Bonus points for love triangle._

 _2\. People help me with no apparent motivation._

 _3\. Sob-story._

 _4\. I don't know how beautiful I am/ too skinny_

 _5\. All women are jealous bitches who hate me even though (or because?) I'm the best._

 _6\. Someone gives me a make-over. Bonus points if for a formal event._

 _7\. Great at all the things_

 _8\. Half-blood of something rare and great. Or secret princess. Bonus points if both._

 _9\. Effortless multiple orgasms_

 _10\. Asked to play "spin the bottle," "seven in heaven," or "truth or dare" at some point in the story with love triangle points present._

Creepy McCreeperson, also known as Inspector Beech, looked at me damn too long today. If I were reading this story, I'd say that guy has issues. Involving me. And my wand, apparently. So I add a check to number one, after all the checks I'd changed my mind on and scratched out.

I groan, noting that I can't add any more checks to the other numbers. What the hell. What's a girl gotta do to become the Mary Sue of this stupid story?!

Well, there's always number nine… I glance back at the backyard. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Charlie Weasley is _literally pouring water_ over his chest right now. The droplets are slowly making their way over each chiseled ab and fuck, he's so close, if this glass weren't in my way...

"No. No," I say. "No, no, no." I fold the list and slide it back into my pocket, peeling myself away from the glass as I contemplate a shower of ice.

x

When Charlie comes back inside, I'm perched on the recliner— rocker now, I guess— with my dummy spell book in my lap. "Studying?" he asks. "How was lunch?" He sounds much more friendly than earlier. I guess he got some of that frustration out with all that… wood chopping.

"Good." I don't glance up. I feel like if I did, my nipples and clitoris would detach from my body and cling to his. Instead, I clear my throat. "I need to see Snape immediately."

"What for?"

"Just to update him on stuff." I almost glance up and stop myself just in time.

"Great. I'll escort you to the lab soon as I shower."

"Great," I say. I let out a long sigh and finally look up, only to catch the sight of Charlie wriggling out of his jeans in the hallway.

Nice. I really needed that, let me tell you.

x

"Ms. Riverstone. Mr. Weasley. _Mr._ Riverstone," Snape eyes Viggo in my arms. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His face is contorted in such a way to indicate that this whole thing is anything but pleasurable.

Charlie and I sit on the guest chairs. Snape barely looks up from writing his notes. I glance around the office. The rain clouds outside make this place much less welcoming than normal. And considering he's got a few skulls hanging about for decor, that's saying something.

"I ran into Anja today," I say.

Snape stops writing. "Oh?"

"She was with this guy."

"Inspector Beech." Snape draws his face into an expressionless mask.

"You know him?" I say.

"What's he inspecting?" Charlie asks at the same time.

"He said the whole reservation," I say.

Charlie furrows his brow. "What happened to Inspector Redfield?"

"What indeed, Mr. Weasley." Snape's frowning. Well, frowning more deeply than usual.

"Anyway, Beech was very interested in my wand."

Snape's eyes snap up to mine. "And why was your wand visible, Ms. Riverstone?"

I sigh and shrug. I'm _so_ not in the mood to argue. "Because I'm an insufferable dunderhead?"

Snape smirks. "Ten points to Gryffindor."

"Oh, there is no way I would've been in Gryffindor," I say. "I'm a Slytherin. You're looking at a housemate, Professor."

Snape scoffs. "I've seen you try your hand at manipulation, Ms. Riverstone. You're a Hufflepuff… at best."

"Nope. I took the Pottermore sorting quiz three times, okay? Slytherin. Every time."

"I think we're a bit off track," Charlie says. I look at him and he's uncharacteristically concerned. "Why's that bloke into her wand?"

"He said it looked like it was folkish. Or something."

"Give me your wand, Ms. Riverstone." I hand it to Snape. He glances at the very bottom of the handle and raises his left eyebrow ever so slightly. "The maker's mark."

"Yeah?" I say.

"It's marked with an unusual symbol. Not letters." He hands it back to me so I can see.

"Oh, that?" I thought something had scuffed it up. It's a rough-looking spiral. I guess. Charlie leans over to look and his hot breath on my neck is the _last_ thing I need to feel right now. I nudge away from his face.

"I'll be needing to do some research," Snape says. "Though its significance may not even be relevant anymore."

"What's that mean?" Charlie asks.

"Anja and I have decided, Ms. Riverstone, if Black concludes that your father is a muggle, then there's no need for you to be here. You'll be free to… go." He makes a dismissive motion with his hands.

"And go where?" I ask. "Aren't there still five Death Eaters after me?"

"Both of your parents, would at that point, be considered ordinary muggles. You'd not be what they're looking for. In any capacity." Snape sighs. "We'd set you up with protective spells. You have the option of a new identity for both you and the child. There would be no reason for you to… stay."

I will my eyes not to glance at Charlie. Instead, I say, "Oh."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "All you've spoken of, Ms. Riverstone, since you've arrived is when you might leave. I thought you'd have a more hearty response than _oh._ "

I shake my head, again, _not_ looking at Charlie. "It's a lot to take in."

It's also a gross misinterpretation of what I meant about leaving this place. I meant the _story_. Not the Romania _inside_ the story. Snape ought to know this, too.

"Well, then," Snape says. "Allow me to add more to your overwhelm. You and Mr. Weasley are to attend the Ministry Gala being held here on the reservation in a week's time."

"What?" Charlie asks the same time I do.

"Mr. Potter is the guest of honor… once again." Snape grimaces. "He has requested Ms. Riverstone's presence. And since you, Mr. Weasley, are her… fiance now, I've heard? You will escort her."

Charlie sighs but salutes Snape. "Yes, sir." He turns to me. "Tasha will get you all dolled up, yeah? She lives for that crap."

I finger my Mary Sue list in my pocket and grin.

"What's so funny?" Charlie asks, giving me a half-smile.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all."

As soon as we get back to the cabin, I gleefully check number six: _Someone gives me a make-over. Bonus points if for a formal event._

Formal events are Where Things Happen. I know, I've read A LOT of fanfiction. This must mean my story is going somewhere.

Somewhere good, I hope.


	15. An American Madwoman in Romania

_Angsty lemon ahead._

* * *

" _Accio_ toy truck." I wave the wand. Nothing.

" _Accio_ book." I wave it at Charlie's copy of _Men Explain Things To Me_ by Rebecca Solnit. Nada.

Charlie's just staring at me like a jerk. He's watching so freakin' closely, I'm not sure I could perform magic even if I was capable of it. I can _feel_ his eyes on me, and it reminds me of earlier, when my eyes were all over him, on the stupid water droplets sliding down his stupid, perfect abs.

"You don't believe you can do it," he says, smiling and nodding like that's an enormously new conclusion.

"Charlie, if you haven't noticed, I don't believe much of anything… here." You know. Potter fanfic and all. I stretch my legs along the sofa.

Charlie chuckles. "That's not true, and you know it, Greta."

I whip my head toward him, 'cause he sounds different. Husky. His eyes are dragging down my body, taking their sweet time on my hips and thighs before returning back to my face. He looks mildly embarrassed at being caught, but at the same time, he _wanted_ to be caught. Pervert. He even fucking _winks_ as though to prove my point. "If that were true, Greta, you wouldn't be so opposed to the idea of us."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I say. "Not everything is about _us_ , man."

"If none of this is real, why've you been so distant since the other night?"

It's a good question. One I'm not willing to address at the moment.

He grins and it's just a little too wild. "You have to admit that you at least know _I'm_ real."

"Hardly." I scoff. "So what's your point? You're saying if I thought things were real, I could perform magic on them?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"And you think _I_ think _you're_ real."

He smirks and shit, I want to prove him so devastatingly _wrong_. So I wave my wand and say, " _Accio_ Charlie Weasley."

And he comes _flying_ towards me.

He trips on the edge of the couch and is practically on top of me now, his eyes wide. "Fuck, Greta."

I roll my eyes and push him back so he's sitting next to me. "Please. Like I'm gonna believe that."

"No, Greta. You really fucking did it. You just _accio'd_ me."

Charlie's a bad liar. Which makes me wonder if he's actually not lying now. 'Cause he looks freakin' flabbergasted.

" _Accio_ Charlie's hand." Like a whip, his hand smacks into mine. His eyes are wide and good god, did I really _just do that_?

" _Accio_ book." And when Rebecca Solnit's name swoops into my grasp, I finally believe it. I'm a witch.

I'm a witch!

At least within the realm of this reality.

But Charlie's hooting and laughing and he's gathered me into his arms in a back-breaking hug. But before I can tell him I'm not trained to handle his moose hugs just yet, he pulls back and puts his lips on mine.

And I just melt into him like goddamn butter. I'm blaming it on the stupid abs water.

God, he tastes so good. He tastes like he's been stealing my blackberries but I swear I don't care right now, 'cause they work _so well_ with the pine and cedar and salty bite of him. He tugs my arms until I'm on top. I don't argue with it.

And I really want to try more.

Before I'm really finished kissing him, I break off and, without looking in his eyes, I run my lips and tongue down his neck. I suck just under his collarbone, using my teeth a little. He yelps and his hips jerk up and I can feel all of him, all ready, for me.

And soon his belt is unbuckled and I'm unzipping his pants. "Are you sure?" he asks, and I still can't look up into his amber eyes, so I let my hands answer, pulling his cock out of his trousers. And now I let my tongue answer, drawing soundless words over the tip of him.

I tease him for a full minute, until his thighs are shaking. As I go about it, I wonder where I want to take this.

I can't fuck him. I can't because I want to so badly.

He tries to pull me up, obviously intent on more, but I push him so far in my mouth I'm practically swallowing him whole, and he moans, his hands in my hair, now, but limp. I tighten my lips and swirl my tongue, up and down, down and up. "Greta," he says, and his voice is part-warning, part-groan, and I shake my head and bob even faster, finally glancing up.

Big mistake, that. The way he's looking at me is just…like I'm something unbearably precious, mixed with the fact he can hardly believe this is happening. And his eyes roll back and I know he's gonna come, so I slip my hand under him and grip his balls, rolling them on my fingers.

He pulls my hair and empties himself into my throat. He doesn't groan or anything. I think he might hold his breath the whole time, actually, which is remarkable because it lasts and lasts. When he collapses back on the sofa, I release him, swallowing.

He tastes sweet.

"Jesus," he says, catching his breath. After only twenty seconds or so, he pulls me up and kisses me again.

But I'm not feeling it. I break off and just stare at him, wondering what the hell did I just do. He's at work on my jeans, though. "Your turn," he grunts, but I put my hands on his, stopping him.

"I don't need that," I say.

He smiles. "That's very generous of you, but I want to."

"I don't," I say. "I don't want that."

He lifts his eyebrows. "You don't like oral?"

"That's not what I'm saying. I just don't want you to do that to me."

Now he looks stunned. Stung. One of those. "But you let Black touch you."

I want to tell him, that has nothing to do with this. With _us_.

Since there is no _us._

But you just sucked him off, I remind myself. Way to prove there's no _us_ , there, Greta.

He pulls his hands from me like I've burned him. "Why—" He groans, standing. "Why did you just do that, Greta? To me?"

Finally I find my voice. "Please don't pretend you don't get blow-jobs left and right, Charlie. And that they all mean something to you."

"So that meant nothing to you?"

I sigh, standing in opposition to him, arms crossed tight. " _Stop_ acting like you have feelings for me. You're confusing yourself."

His face falls. Now he looks stung. "Jesus, Greta." He throws up his hands. "I should've listened to Snape. You're fucking barking mad."

Okay. That one hurt. Before I can sling something just as sharp at him, though, he's stomped away to his door. "You can stay in the guest room tonight."

I roll my eyes as the door shuts. Like I'd want to be anywhere near him ever again. Fucking bastard.

x

"Hey, Greta." Charlie's at the doorway. "Look, I'm sorry about yesterday. I said some things—"

"It's fine," I shrug, passing a piece of strawberry to Viggo.

"No, I mean it. I was an arse—"

"Hey," I say, smiling. "I mean it, too. It's _fine_."

He stands there for another few seconds, then nods. "Right. Thanks." And he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

My smile drops immediately and I sigh.

Things aren't fine, obviously.

But I'm keeping my distance with Charlie. What happened yesterday was a stupid mistake. In so many ways.

I already said this shit once and I'll say it again. I'm not falling for a fictional person.

I can't. My heart has been shattered once already. I don't think I can survive another.

x

Barking mad.

The words come first thing the following morning.

When I glance at the date, I bite the insides of my cheeks so hard, I taste blood.

Christ, it's going to be shitty day. And it hasn't even begun yet.

x

...and make that two shitty days in a fucking row.

It's not Charlie, though. It's all _fucking barking mad_ me.

I can't not cry anymore.

But I also can't let Viggo see me cry.

I sigh, drafting up a letter to Annette. She'll let me have a break. She owes me, like, sixteen baby-sits still.

x

"Greta?"

Tasha's voice is on the other side of the door. She knocks and opens it.

"Hey? What's the matter? Are you sick?"

She sits on the side of the bed and I groan. "Who sent you? Annette?"

"No, actually. Does she have Viggo?"

"Yeah."

We say nothing for a bit. Finally, she adds, "I think Charlie's really worried about you."

I throw the covers on my head. "Please don't mention his name to me," I say. "It's bad enough that I'm forced to live with him."

"Uh, I can't really understand you, Greta."

I throw the covers off and sigh. "Yesterday was my sixth wedding anniversary with Luke."

"Fuck," she says, wincing. "That why you've been blowing me off all week?"

"Yeah." It's certainly a big part of it.

She leans back on the bed, glancing at the doorway. I'm pretty sure I can see the big, bulky shadow of Charlie and I immediately know they're in this together, he and Tash, trying to figure out what's wrong with the bitchy American madwoman now.

"What did you two used to do for it?" she asks. Gently.

I shake my head.

"You don't want to talk about it."

I nod.

"That's fine, Greta. But the gala is in two days. We need to find you a dress."

"Why can't you pick one out for me? Put a sizing charm on it?"

"Because we need to get you out of this—" she waves her hand. "Whatever this is. And Annette has Viggo for at least another couple of hours, yeah? Let's just get it over with."

"No."

"I'll let you drink your weight in firewhisky."

I groan and throw the covers off. "Deal."

* * *

 _We're actually in the single-digits for how many chapters there are left in this! Though I do tend to underestimate. But I can personally see the end from here, and I hope you all find it satisfying._

 _Thank you SO much for your kind reviews and messages. I know this is an unusual fic. Based on the chapter views, about 70 percent of folks who click are like, "Uhh- nevermind." Which is fine! But it also makes me appreciate you devoted followers all the more._

 _So THANK YOU again! Seriously, your sweet words make my day._


	16. A F king Forest Fairy

"Luke used to buy me all the anniversary things the night before," I say, tossing back my umpteenth firewhisky. "I'd wake up surrounded by them."

"What sort of things?" Tasha asks. She's had a shot already but she's only nursing the second.

"Violetbell flowers. My favorites."

"Have muggles domesticated those?" Tasha asks. "We only get 'em wild here."

I shrug. "I don't know. They would just be there, all in mason jars."

"Shite. There's a real possibility he foraged for those, you know."

This actually doesn't help me feel any better so I signal for another shot.

"What other things did he get you?" Tasha's watching me so intently and I wonder if Charlie's going to get a play-by-play this evening. Or maybe Snape. Either way, this certainly helps the Mary Sue argument, the fact that everyone seems so annoyingly obsessed with me.

"The usual. Chocolates. Once he got me a record-player." I smile at my shot glass. "When I was a teenager, I was infatuated with Mariah Carey, and he got me all her records that year. Sort of like a joke, but we put them on and sang all day. Well, I sang all day."

Tasha sighs happily. "Flowers, chocolates, music. Sounds sickeningly romantic to me."

"Well, there was sex, too. Until I got pregnant, I mean, and the idea of doing anything but lying in bed made me want to hurl."

She bites her lips, narrowing her eyes.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing."

"Tasha…"

She sighs. "It's not an appropriate question given our current… conversation."

"Since when do you care about what's appropriate?"

"I see your point. Alright." She finishes her whisky. "You fuck Charlie yet?"

I groan, dropping my forehead to the table. "No!"

"You sure?"

Christ, did he tell her something? I decide I'm too drunk to care. "I blew him."

"I knew it!"

I raise my head a couple inches. "How."

"He was acting so weird about you. Just, completely protective and singularly-focused, and when we spoke of anything else, he'd get this glazed look in his eyes—"

"Let's go get that dress, Tasha," I interrupt. "Before I turn into a bottle of firewhisky."

She blinks and nods, reaching into her pocket and tossing me a vial. "Pepper-up," she says. "I don't fancy carrying you from store to store."

I toss the thing back and nearly vomit. It tastes like what I imagine a smoothie consisting of brains would. But its effect? Immediate. I feel my nervous system lighting up like a city map.

"Jesus fucking Christ on a motherfucking peanut butter cracker."

Tasha laughs. "There she is." She stands. "Come on, Riverstone. We don't have all day."

x

The wizarding world of Harry Potter needs some new fashion designers. Every gown I've tried on looks like it's made for an elderly woman on mushrooms.

"Why does this dress have a turtleneck?" I hiss to Tasha in the fitting room.

She snorts. "That, my dear, is called a French drape. It's totally vintage and classy."

"I look like an uncircumcised penis."

"Oh, you do n—" Tasha stares for a moment before dissolving into belly laughs. "You're right," she says between breaths. "Oh, gods, you're right." She pats my arm. "There, there, Greta. I prefer the uncircumcised ones, myself."

I glare before pulling the ungodly thing off. "Next store."

x

"Natasha," I say, twirling around in an electric teal gown over an enormous petticoat. "Congratulations. You've created a blueberry monster."

"Oh, it's not that bad."

"Ha!" I say, pointing. "You just admitted that it _is_ bad."

"Well…"

"Yoohoo! Ladies!" Tasha and I both turn to see Annette holding Viggo.

"Mama!" Viggo wriggles down and bounds toward me.

"Hey, baby," I say. "I missed you!"

"Milk." He immediately claws at my top, and I have a seat, letting him nurse.

"What do you think of the dress, Annette?" Tasha asks.

Annette gives me a once-over. "It is certainly wide."

"Wide isn't good, Tasha." I raise my eyebrow at her.

"Wide can be good," Annette amends.

I shake my head, not wanting to debate it further. "How's the Professor?"

"Well, I finally got a bloody leg over just last week. Merlin, the stamina of that wizard!" She fans herself. "I don't know if it originates from him or a potion, but I, for one, am shocked I can feel my limbs today."

I smile and Tasha's doubled over in giggles. _She_ needs a Pepper-up vial, to be quite honest. "I can't believe you're fucking Snape," she says. "No wonder he's been in such a good mood."

"Good mood? Snape?" I ask.

"Well, he didn't call me an idiot the last two days, so I'd say yeah."

Annette smirks before eyeing my dress again. "Greta, why don't you get something custom-made over at Merwitch?"

"Well, Annette, considering I have no idea what that is—"

"I'd forgotten about Merwitch!" Tasha smacks my arm.

"Shit, woman," I say, rubbing my bicep.

"Get dressed, Ms. Picky," she says, grabbing Viggo. "Let's if you can do better than me."

x

Merwitch is a tiny boutique on the edge of Main Street, everything inside covered in glittery bits of costumer jewelry. When the sunset light drifts in through the front window, I have to squint through the bright reflection in the cut glass gems.

A wizard with a pencil-thin goatee and a gorgeously cut cream suit ushers us into an eight-walled room, also covered in baubles. Tasha explains our predicament.

"Undress," the man says. When I give him a look, he smiles and offers his hand . "My name is Jupiter and I am _the_ gayest," he informs me. "But if you need me to step out, I will."

"It's fine," I say, shaking his hand. Just tired of everyone telling me what to do is all.

"What are you thinking?" a wizard asks me, surveying my body once I'm in my skeevies.

I close my eyes, trying to envision my Pinterest boards. "A fish-cut gown." I jump when I feel a weight of material on me. I glance down and am dressed in a white, satin, and yes, fish-cut gown. "Holy crap."

"Go on with the dress, dear," Jupiter says. "We're closing in thirty."

"Illusion neckline." I glance down to see that the satin has been cut to a low strapless line, with sheer tulle covering my chest and shoulders.

"Oh, that's lovely," Annette says.

"I'm not done yet," I say. "Um, let's make the dress a pale sage green."

"Ugh," Jupiter says. I hate to admit it, but the dress does now resemble vomit.

"It's my favorite color," I argue, because I'm not ready to say he's right.

"If I may suggest," he says, grabbing my arm to examine it. "Grey lilac."

"Wow." Tasha blinks. "That color is lovely with your complexion."

"Exactly," Jupiter says, smiling a bit smugly.

"Fine. You're right," I tell him. I close my eyes again. "I want a layer of tulle over the satin as well. And on the tulle, embroidery of leaves and lilacs, made like it's a vine, growing on me." I can feel the dress shifting over my skin, but I don't open my eyes just yet. "And I want several violet butterflies on me. Not embroidered!" I point my finger down, like I'm speaking to the dress. "Charmed to look real, like they're drinking up the flowers. Not too many. Just enough to make me look like a garden sorceress." I pause. "And a few extra butterflies to put in my hair."

"Bubbleflies," Viggo exclaims on Tasha's shoulders.

"Godric fucking Gryffindor," Tasha says. "You're going to be on the bloody cover of Witch Weekly in that."

"It is breathtaking, Greta," Annette assures me.

"It isn't bad," Jupiter says, surveying me. "Do you need a job?"

I blink. "Maybe." I mean, who the hell knows how long Viggo and I are going to be here.

"Owl me." He turns, opening the door to the main floor. "I'll be at the register! Just leave the gown in here, the room will box it up for you."

I'm alone in the room when I finally look in the full-length mirror. Even though I'm still upset about the general way my life is going right now, I can't help but grin. I look like a fucking forest fairy.

I wonder if Charlie will like it.

I suppose I'll find out soon enough, anyway.

But I also suppose it doesn't matter in the end.

I pull my Mary Sue list after I dress, marking the one where I'm good at all the things. I mean, I've never been amazing at couture or whatever— I just have a very thorough Pinterest board— but I just got offered a fucking job at the wizarding equivalent of, like, Monique Lhuillier, so. Yeah, the Sue has been Mary'd.

x

I'm relieved when Viggo and I finally get in and Charlie's not here. I mean, I do wonder a bit where he is, and if it involves an impossibly tall blonde named Farrah, but then I remind myself I'm being an idiot, getting jealous over a fake man.

I get the boy in his crib and when I walk out, Charlie's there. He's making his way from the floo, but he stops, unmoving. Staring. "Hi," I say.

He takes two enormous steps toward me and envelops me in the warmest, tightest hug. "I'm sorry," he says into my hair. "I'm sorry."

I feel tears sting my eyes. "Don't be." I swallow, inhaling the pine and fresh dirt smell of his chest. " _I'm_ sorry. I know this isn't easy for you."

He holds me for a long time, his hands clasping me like he can't let go. But then he does. And he's got a box in his hand.

"We're meant to look betrothed," he says. He opens it.

Inside is a silver ring set with a small bright emerald. "It's lovely," I say. And it is. The silver is textured, like you can see the hammer marks, and the emerald glitters like the inside of Merwitch at sunset.

He puts it on my left ring finger. "It was my mother's first engagement ring," he says.

"What?" I stare at him. "But- no, god, no Charlie. This is too precious for a fake engagement."

He shrugs. "I'm thinking, Greta, this is the closest I'm ever getting to engaged. So you may as well enjoy it, yeah?"

"I'll give it back to you as soon as this is all over," I say.

Charlie looks like he's going to argue, but instead, he sighs. "We'll see." He gives me a sad smile. "I'm off to bed."

I wear the emerald as I sleep. I don't know why, but it makes me feel extra safe. Especially since Charlie and I are, once again, in separate rooms.

* * *

 _Apologies to everyone who freaked out just a little bit when I said this fic was ending soon! All I meant, and said rather poorly, was that we've reached the latter half. I'm on the top of the mountain and I can personally see the ending. However, it is going to be a bit before we all get there._

 _Also apologies for such a late update! Things are hectic but I'm still writing, albeit much more slowly these last two months._

 _Thank you, as always, for the support!_


	17. The Love Triangle Returns

_Well, despite the fact that I have 300 things I ought to be writing/revising right now, the plot bunnies for this fic have swept me away! Hope you enjoy._

 _Spanish translated at the bottom._

 _Thanks so much for your reviews, follows and faves!_

* * *

I've dropped Viggo off at the childcare set up for the Ball. Annette's running it and has promised to take extra care of him with protective bubbles and anti-fall charms and all that good stuff.

And now? I've got to get ready for this stupid piece of crap.

I empty the contents of my make-up bag on the bed, pausing for a minute. I mean, I am the Mary Sue, right? I should have a team of artists coming in to contour me into looking like a porn star. Or, at the very least, a mannequin.

After a minute, I have to come to terms with the fact that there are no footsteps bearing the wizarding version of a MAC shopping spree. The only thing I hear is the shower running, in fact. Imagining Charlie in there with stupid ab _and_ dick water is doing me no good, so I grab a couple brushes and get to work.

I decide to focus more on my eyes than anything else, blending dark brown with green to make an intense smoky look. Liner, mascara. For lips and cheeks, I rub in a stain. Now I look like I've been eating raspberries. Ooh. I think I have a few in the fridge still.

Okay, attention, Greta. There will be hors d'oeuvres at the ball.

Five minutes later, I'm in bed with a bowl of berries when Tasha opens the door.

"Hello! Are you decent?" She's got her arm over her eyes.

"Why don't you just knock like a normal human? And yes, I'm decent."

She looks at me and rolls her eyes. "You know we have to be at the thing in, like, an hour right?"

I shrug. "I don't see you in a gown."

She places a bunch of bags on the desk. "Move over, let me get in on those." I comply and she plops down. "It just occurred to me you probably don't know any beauty charms." She glances at my face. "But your make-up game is on point."

"So, you're like my stylist or something?"

She snorts with a mouthful of berries. "I can't manage much, but I do know how to set cosmetics. And hair." She grabs a stand of mine. "Which, no offense, but—"

"I haven't done it yet, alright?"

Ten minutes later, thanks to Tasha's wand, my hair is plaited all around my head, romantic tendrils all falling out in the most perfect places. She pins the nearly-real butterflies in and I swear to all that is holy and good I'd get at least twenty thousand hearts on Instagram for this wood nymph shit.

Since her hair is effortlessly sleek and stunning, she leaves it down. She lines her eyes with bronze while I get the dress on.

"Shoes?"

"Uh…"

I own ballet slippers and boots. I gesture to the two and Tasha groans. She waves her wand over the slippers, and they become pointy and glitter-lavender-y with a small heel. "Thanks," I say.

Tasha pulls her own dress on— a slick, off-the-shoulder copper sheath that makes her look like she belongs on some red carpet somewhere.

"Okay." She surveys me. "Jewelry?"

"Um." I idly touch the engagement ring on my finger.

She pulls open a bag and takes out dangly crystal drops. "You can borrow these."

"Sure. Thanks." I pin them in my ears.

As she tries on a couple different necklaces, I pull out my purse and dig in. After a minute, I unwravel an old, white handkerchief and stare at the snake brooch that ruined my life.

It's beautiful. The silvery details of the scales and eyes and curves are so refined, it makes me wonder if it was crafted by pixies. Are pixies a thing in Harry Potter? Must look up later.

I haven't worn it since that night. It seems like a terrible omen, to adorn the thing that got your husband murdered.

Plus, sometimes when I'm alone with it, I swear it feels like a woman to me, like it's laughing or something, and not exactly in a jolly manner. I know that must make me sound way more insane than usual, but I've been known to personify inanimate objects before— from the sad, uneaten apples in the fridge to Viggo's devastated, thrown books.

I should look into selling it. If it's valuable enough to trade your car over... or kill a man over. It must be worth a fortune.

"Ooh, what's that?"

"Oh, just an old brooch."

She examines it and wrinkles her nose. "Nah. That thing gives me the creeps. Besides, your dress doesn't need it."

I heartily agree and unceremoniously dump the lump back in my purse.

There's a knock at the door. "We have to leave five minutes ago," Charlie calls.

"We're not done, you brute!" Tasha yells back, turning to me. "You need more glitter." She's got bits of sparkle on the corners of her eyes and a little on her shoulders, and it looks so magical, I agree to let her dab some on me.

After setting everything with a spell, she grins. "To tell you the truth, the main reason I'm here is to see Charlie's face when he gets a gander at you."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever, woman."

I'm pleased, though, when I glance in the mirror. The dress does look straight off a woodland-themed runway, the butterflies scattered here and there, opening and closing their wings over embroidered lilac buds and the braid of my hair.

"Not bad, huh?" Tasha says.

I smile and give her a hug. "Thanks for your help."

"Like you needed much." She winks and flings open the door.

Charlie's reading _Men Explain Things To Me_ , looking hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch in his grey pinstriped suit. Clean-shaven, combed hair, broad shoulders that must've required a hell of a sizing spell on that jacket.

Is it terrible that I may be wet at the sight of him? Christ. Must be ovulating or something.

He glances up, smiling at Tash, who steps away and lets him gaze at me. There's an _immediate_ reddening of his cheeks and ears, his face almost expressionless, but he finally inhales and it's almost a choke. "Merlin," he says finally.

"You look great," I say, feeling a little bad for him. I mean, at least I had a moment to catch my breath upon seeing his fine ass.

"You— you." He clears his throat, glancing at Tasha, who looks so giddy she ought to be slapped. "You both look beautiful," he finishes.

"Aw, thanks, Moose," Tasha says. "Looking sharp yourself." She turns to me. "Well, shall we?"

I take Charlie's extended arm and we all head to the floo.

x

The ball is located in the reservation's grand library, which should please the Hermione Granger-types present. The first thing I notice when we slip through the fireplace is the arched ceiling covered in in moon-lit clouds. I mean, _clouds_. On the inside.

"Ooh, I see my date," Tasha says. "See you two in a bit!" Before I can ask her who the heck is her date, she's gone.

Charlie guides me through throngs of people to a side of the ballroom labeled "VIW." I'm assuming the "w" is for 'witches' and 'wizards.'

A giant, troll-esque chap places a hand on Charlie's shoulder before we cut through the red barrier. "What business have you here?" he barks, his voice loud and deep enough to jingle the glassware on one of the floating trays whizzing by us.

"Harry Potter wishes to meet my-" Charlie coughs. "Fiancé."

The bouncer gives me a long look before another fellow hobbles over. "Jerry," the other guy barks. "That's Weasley you're talking to. Let 'em though, will you?"

The bouncer glares down at us as the red gate opens. When we get in, the hobbling-follow grabs Charlie by the suit.

"What's Charlie Weasley's patronus?" he asks, his voice in a growl. I nearly jump back when I look the fellow in the eyes— specifically the one eye contained in a harness, spinning around like a freakin' dervish.

"A moose," Charlie responds, looking mildly amused.

"And mine?"

"A bloody wildebeest, what else?"

The crazy man releases Charlie's clothing and glares at me with that eye.

...Oh!

This is Mad-Eye—

"Moody," he barks.

"Nice to meet you," I say. "I'm Gret-"

"I know who you are." He lets the crazy eye wind up and down on me for a good ten seconds.

"Like the dress?" I ask, attempting to lighten the mood.

Moody grunts and turns. "Potter's this way."

I spot Harry sitting close with a redhead woman— Ginny, maybe?- but before Charlie leads me toward them, Moody digs a finger in my shoulder.

"I don't trust you, Riverstone."

I roll my eyes. "Get in line, Captain Hook."

To my shock, the dude snorts with a half-smile for a second before growling again. "I've got my eye on you," he says before disappearing into a group of people.

Great.

When I turn, there's a hand in my face and I glance up to see to whom it belongs.

"Harry Potter," the man says, giving me a wary smile.

x

I'm sitting at a table in a ball.

With Harry Potter.

It _is_ Ginny next to him, and after everyone introduces themselves and settles in, there's an awkward silence that goes on for far too long.

"So, Greta," Harry says. "How do you like Romania so—"

"No." I shake my head vigorously.

Harry widens his eyes; meanwhile, Ginny narrows hers.

"I mean, let's not bullshit one another, here." I cross my arms. "First, I want to know if you think I'm crazy, too."

Beside me, Charlie winces, but doesn't say anything. Ginny smiles, and Harry drops his gaze, having the decency to look sheepish. He's not as handsome as Daniel Radcliffe, but there certainly is an intensity in his eyes as he looks back up at me. And yes, they're as green as the Romanian fucking forests that surround us.

"I think you've had one hell of a ride," Harry says, folding his hands on the table. "And I kind of understand where you're coming from. I mean, once upon a time…" He drifts off, glancing at Ginny, and drops his eyes back on me, shaking his head. "No. You're not crazy."

"Thank you." And I mean it. I might be in love with Harry Potter now.

"Do we have any updates on the case, Aurors?" Charlie asks.

Harry nods. "Sirius is back from Iceland, says he's got some news on your father, Greta. As the floo wasn't secure, we're waiting on him to arrive before we hear anything specific on it." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "Right, the Death Eater in Bulgaria, ah, led us to a handful of 'em. Not Crouch, unfortunately, but we've reason to believe he's still in America. Looking for something, apparently."

"What's he looking for?" I ask. "I thought they were just after a witch with magical singing powers."

Ginny shrugs. "Supposedly, the song-witch was supposed to lead them to some ancient relic." She looks a lot like Emma Stone— elegant, lean, bright-eyed. Her silver sweetheart-necked dress is breathtaking. "We tried all the spells, potions and tricks to get it out of 'em during questioning. Everything short of torture, really." She sips her wine. "Seems like Crouch is clever and he's the only one who knows whatever it is. Everyone else is just after, well." She glances at me. "You."

I grab a flute of champagne when Ginny reaches over, grasping my other hand, her finger on my emerald ring. "Charlie?" She glances at him, and his face is nearly as red as his hair.

Charlie glances around. "We're meant to look engaged, Ginny."

She shakes her head, laughing. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Mum's old engagement ring? Really?"

"We're meant—"

"Do you know why Mum even gave that to you?" Ginny's eyes are wide and she grabs Charlie's arm. "She charmed it, Charlie, in case you ever gave it to a witch. So she'd know the second your engagement happened." She makes air quotes around engagement. "And you _know_ Mum's going to think this is real. She's no reason to believe otherwise. Moreover, she can't know otherwise. You know that too, right?"

Charlie looks pale. "What? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why would I? Didn't think you were ever getting engaged; that's what you said after you broke up with that awful dragon keeper; what's her name—"

"Rune," I supply, making a face.

Ginny snaps her fingers. "That's the one. From the look on you, I take it you've met her, too."

I nod, finishing my drink. "Yep."

Charlie looks like he's about to break into a panic so I decide to change the subject. "So, when's Sirius getting in?"

Harry looks around. "He should be here any minute now."

"What?" I grin. "He's going to be here? Really?"

Charlie arm freezes mid-way to his drink. Yikes, maybe I shouldn't sound so happy. But why not, honestly? Sirius is the only person who's treated me like I'm normal since I've arrived.

But Ginny's raising her eyebrow at Charlie and they're exchanging looks and things are mightily awkward and oh, god, this is a nightmare.

"Well, he's a very kind man," I finish. "I'm glad he'll be able to celebrate with you, Harry, and his friends."

That should put some distance between Sirius and me, right? But Charlie looks pissed now, with Ginny's eyebrow raised even higher, and Harry just looking confused as fuck.

"Charlie," Ginny says. "Why don't you have a dance with your gorgeous bride?"

Charlie looks about as horrified as I feel. "I have no idea how," I say quickly.

"Charlie knows. He can at least manage a waltz, can't you? I mean, you had to learn for Bill's wedding."

Charlie finishes his wine and nods briskly. "Right. That sounds good. Come on, Greta."

He takes my hand and off we go.

x

"Greta!"

I'm turn and am delighted to see Ramon walking our way, Tasha's hand in his. I raise an eyebrow at her but she just shrugs.

"¿Como has estado?"

He shrugs. "Ah, muy bien. Tengo algunas quemaduras de dragon aquí y allá, pero no me puedo quejar. ¿Y usted?"

"Bien, también. Charlie me vuelve loca, pero no me puedo quejar, tampoco."

"That's right," Ramon says, pulling Charlie into a hug. "Congratulations, mate!"

"Thanks," Charlie mumbles.

"¿Cuándo es la boda?" Ramon asks, turning to me.

"Oh, we haven't set a date yet." I shrug. "Pero pronto, though."

"Looking forward to it, Greta! We better be off, we're going to, ah—"

"Fuck," Tasha supplies. "We're going to fuck."

Ramon just grins and shrugs, and as she pulls him away, she pulls her hands apart, like she's measuring a pineapple or something. _Huge_ , she mouths.

I want to high five her. Maybe later.

Charlie distracts my thoughts by pulling my hand into the dance floor. There's some smooth jazzy-orchestra fusion music playing. It's not terrible.

"So, the waltz?" I ask, glancing around. No one else seems to be doing anything nearly that formal.

"Nah," Charlie responds, turning to me. He pulls my hand up to his shoulder and he drapes his on the small of my back. "Just this is fine."

My breath catches in my throat at the feel of his hand on me. Jesus, I'm not some inexperienced teenager, but I can't help it. The warmth of his palm is _penetrating_ my dress.

"Nearly got a killing curse sent my way from Snape this morning," Charlie says, turning me.

"Oh?" His hand slides a little to the left and it takes all my energy to focus on the words coming out his mouth.

"Yeah, see, the Ministry is footing the bill for your get-up tonight. He's the one who has write up the paperwork. Anyway, bloody Tash threw me under the broom, giving me the receipt of your dress to pass to him."

I laugh. "She did not." Then I frown, glancing down. "How much was this, anyway?"

Charlie grins, his eyes twinkling over that perfect dimple. "Thirty-five hundred galleons."

I gasp, nearly tripping on my feet. "What?"

Jesus Christ. _One_ chicken dinner in the wizarding world costs _three_ galleons. If I use that as a base, converting it to American dollars…

I stop, staring up at him. "This dress is worth over seventeen thousand dollars?" I grab his shoulders. "I'm wearing a seventeen thousand dollar dress?!"

He laughs, lifting me a little to the side so I'm not in the way. He slides one hand down, just above my ass, the other at my shoulders, and he dips me, leaning over. I'm overwhelmed with the smell of him, that orange and lemon and just pure _fucking_ sex. And he makes his voice low and husky and right in my ear, he whispers, "Worth every bloody sickle."

It's a wonder I don't have an orgasm on the spot.

No worries on that front, though, because as soon as he lifts me back up, I'm looking straight at the skyward tits of a one Farrah Whore-jerk. Talk about a mood-killer.

"Charlie," she says, grinning, placing her hand on his bicep.

Charlie gives her a long once-over, which infuriates me. I mean, sure, she's wearing a gold dress that starts just above her areolas, and yeah, there's a slit that rides nearly all the way up to her cunt (which, where the hell did she get a dress like that? Why did Tasha take me to Old Lady Central and _Farrah_ got to go to Prostitute-Mart?). Charlie's ogling perks Farrah right up, and she leans in to give him a wet kiss on the cheek. " _So_ nice to see you."

"Nice to see you, too," he says, glancing at me. "You know my fiancé, Greta."

"Right, the Squib." She glances down at my ring and I can see the wheels turning in her mind: not a big, honking diamond; not a big, honking diamond. She's very pleased about it not being a big, honking diamond. "Just a few weeks ago, you're his housemate, now, his fiancé." She hums like she doesn't believe it. Which, to be fair, she's right, but still, it's a bitchy thing to say. She leans towards Charlie, pressing her breasts against his ribs. "I was wondering if you'd like to… talk. I _need_ to talk to you, Charlie."

"Well, maybe- " Charlie begins, and it's not an immediate _get the fuck away from me, you heartless bitch_ , so fuck this. I glance around and spot what could be the back of Sirius's head.

"Go ahead," I say to Charlie. "I've got to _talk_ to Sirius, myself, so take your time." I smirk at Farrah. "I certainly intend to."

And then I stomp away.

* * *

The italics are the translations:

 _"How have you been?"_

He shrugs. _"Ah, pretty good. I have a few dragon burns here and there, but I can't complain. And you?"_

 _"Good as well. Charlie makes me crazy, but I can't complain, either."_

"That's right," Ramon says, pulling Charlie into a hug. "Congratulations, mate!"

"Thanks," Charlie mumbles.

 _"When's the wedding?"_ Ramon asks, turning to me.

"Oh, we haven't set a date yet." I shrug. " _But soon_ , though."

* * *

 _So, this chapter we have a few hints to the great mystery driving the plot. I'm not very good with twists, so I'm assuming most folks can see it from a mile away, but I'm curious- let me know your theories on what's going on here, if you like!_


	18. Dragons, Forests and Gold Nipples, Oh My

I'm walk-running towards Sirius so fast, I nearly slam my face into the chest of some guy who has the misfortune of getting in my way.

"Sorry," I say, my eyes on the shaggy dark head on the other side of the ballroom.

"Ms. Riverstone," the fellow says. "Fancy seeing you here."

I blink. "Oh, hello Inspector Beech."

He's dressed in a navy suit, that wooden cane still in hand. He stares at me, drawing his pale eyes down to my hips and back up again. "Lovely dress. Looks like it came from an enchanted butterfly… _park._ " He smirks.

I stare blankly. "Sorry, I don't really get the joke."

He ignores my comment. "You'll have to have a glass of champagne with me," he says, offering me a flute. "We have much to discuss."

I see Sirius walking towards the exit— or are those the bathrooms?— and I shake my head vigorously. "Can't," I say. "Maybe later." I rush past him, mumbling, "Or maybe never."

I'm pretty sure that guy failed to blink the entire time I was talking to him. Note to self: Ask Snape if there's actual proof Beech is human.

"Sirius," I call, breaking through a group of tsking witches. "Sirius!"

He turns, and yes, there is a god, because Sirius Black is grinning at me, arms open. "Songbird!"

He can hardly get the whole word out before I knock him over with a back-breaking hug.

"Merlin's bollocks, woman," he says, laughing into my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me tight. "I missed you, too, pet."

"Oh, my god, Sirius." I say, breaking the hug to gaze at him. "You're here!"

"Fucking hell," he says, gesturing to my dress. "You look smashing, love."

"Thanks." I nod at his crimson tweed suit. "You look amazing, yourself." I realize I'm holding his hand. "Sorry," I say, releasing him.

"No worries, Songbird," he says, wrapping an arm around my waist. "I need you to tell me something, though." His voice is low.

"Sure," I say. I'm breathless from all the heel-running.

Sirius smiles. "Why is there a certain Moose looking at me as though he's trying to Avada me with his eyes?"

I snort. "You mean around his preoccupation with the Hookington Tramp Factory?"

Sirius grins. "I've no idea what that is, pet, but I have to admit, I'm indescribably intrigued."

I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Tall, blonde, gold dress? Nipples hanging out?"

Sirius shakes his head. "There are no nipples near our Moose at the moment. Nay, he's alone. And _seething._ " He pulls back to look at me, his eyes twinkling. "What'd I miss, Songbird?"

"Nothing. It's not important." I bite my lip, trying with all my might to not to turn back and see. "So, Harry said you found my dad?"

Sirius nods. "Congratulations, Greta. You're a muggleborn, through and through."

"I— I— what?"

"Your father's a muggle. Never even heard of the bloody Potter books, which is a cryin' shame if you ask me, even if she did kill me off in, what, five? Six? Nevertheless." He takes a long swig of what looks like brandy. "It's official. You're not the witch the Death Eaters want."

He looks at me expectantly, and I have to say, on some level— most levels, actually, this is great news. I mean, there's no reason for me to be hunted by murderous cult followers anymore. At least, not _inside_ the fanfic.

But then again, according to Snape, at least, they're going to ship me and Viggo back to America now.

Far away from Sirius, Tasha, Annette.

And Charlie.

Upon the befuddlement on Sirius' face, I force mine into a grin. "Yeah, wow. What a relief. Thank you."

He furrows his brow. "You alright, there, So—"

His eyes catch something behind me. I turn and see a woman, dressed like an angel. I mean, she's got a white dress on that's freaking _glowing_ , complete with fairy lights strung in her long, blonde hair.

"Luna," Sirius breathes.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Hey, Sirius, I'll catch you later," I say, squeezing his hand. I give Luna a smile, which she returns, as I make my way to the bathrooms.

x

I close the door to a stall and breathe. My thoughts are fragmented, but I grab what I can, trying to make sense of what's going on right now.

Charlie has Farrah, also known as Tits McGhee.

Sirius has Luna, who looks like she literally just walked down from heaven.

And I'm a muggleborn, through and through.

Translation: I'm no longer of any use to anyone here.

Viggo and I will be going home soon. When, I wonder. Tonight? Tomorrow?

I feel like I might cry when I hear the door bursts open and sobs echo off the tile. Must be the mood of the night, I guess.

"Come on, Farrah," a voice says. "He's not worth it."

Oh my god. Is Golden Nipples weeping in the bathroom? Jesus, what fucking timing is this?

"He—" She takes a sharp inhale. "He said he was going to meet my parents a month ago, Leslie! He promised. And now he's fucking _engaged_?"

Okay, so it is Charlie's Farrah. I was trying to calculate how many Farrahs may be frequenting this gala.

"But didn't you guys have sex, like, last week or something?"

I feel my heart drop a little at that. Yeah, the night I came on to Charlie. _She_ was there when I woke up and he'd _insisted_ they hadn't—

"I lied, Leslie. We didn't sleep together."

"What? What happened, then?"

She blows her nose. "He asked me to come over to _snuggle_ , Les. He didn't even want to talk. It was so awkward. _So_ awkward. When he went to the bathroom, I—" she sobs. "I took off my clothes. And you know what he did when he saw me? He fucking threw me out." She's hysterical now, and her friend makes soothing noises. "It was so humiliating."

"But didn't he like your dress tonight?"

"At first! But then _she_ ran off, and it was like I didn't exist anymore. Fuck, Leslie. I can't even give it away."

All of a sudden, I feel pity for her. Charlie really fucked with her brain and that's not her fault. I mentally take back every name I've called her.

Her friend does some freshening spells, and Farrah pulls it together enough to return to the ball.

I take a sigh. Fuck, Charlie.

But then again, I now have confirmation he's not with her.

And what now, Greta? I'll just pack him up and take him to Jersey with me? Then he and Viggo and I will be a big, happy family together?

Ugh. I need more alcohol.

x

As soon as I walk back to the ballroom, I spot Brian, clipboard in his hand, barking orders at the folks dispersing the wine and champagne trays.

"Brian," I say, walking over. "You guys got any firewhisky out tonight?"

"Riverstone," he responds. "You've got a lot of nerve, asking me that like we're bloody chums or something."

Well, what the hell is he mad at me about? ...Oh, yeah. I straighten my back and look directly in his eyes. "I'm sorry I left you high and dry, okay? But to be fair, Brian, Snape had _just_ told me he was dangling me over escaped Death Eaters like a fucking carrot in front of a horse, so I thought it prudent to get me and my son out of the country. Apologies for the inconvenience that may have caused you."

He stares at me for a moment and returns to his clipboard. "Firewhisky's for after dinner," he says. "But if you take a look in the kitchens, I believe the staff are sharing a bottle right now. They think I'm bloody stupid and don't know, but I fucking know everything around here!" He shouts and looks around at that last bit.

"Thank you." I rush into the direction he points.

x

Three shots of firewhisky later, with an additional glass in my hand, I wander the hallways, taking a look behind each door. Bathroom. Bathroom. Steam room? What the hell is that for? Coat and bag closet, that's good to know. Aha! A sitting room.

The shadows are dark inside, but there's a sofa, so I'm not going to complain. I plop down and take a sip. This shit doesn't even burn anymore.

The door opens and I don't bother blinking. I wonder why I'm so numb right now. Oh, right, whisky.

"Fine, but make it quick, alright? I don't want to miss the competition, Malfoy."

Malfoy? I straighten my back, trying to see, exactly, which Malfoy just walked in.

The door shuts and the platinum blond fellow in a black tux— Malfoy, I must assume— has pressed the woman up against it. "I'll take as long as I like, Granger." Then he kisses her.

I nearly drop my shot glass. _What_? I'm in a fucking _Dramione_ fic?

"Are you already wet for me?" Malfoy's hands are dipping in the slit of her dress. "Or are you wet for all those bloody books in the ballroom?"

She laughs, and I can't help it, I laugh, too.

They jump apart, staring at me. "Who the fuck are you?" Malfoy demands.

Well, fuck. Malfoy wins the Most Beautiful Person I've Seen In This Fic Yet Award. His jaw is narrow with rosebud lips, his storm grey eyes surrounded by dark lashes, and he's _tall_. I mean, he's _so_ fucking pretty, he makes Bill Weasley look like the inside of a litter box.

Hermione's lovely, too. Heart-shaped face, smattering of freckles along her nose and cheekbones with big, brown eyes. Hourglass figure in a red strapless gown.

Both their wands are pointed at me and Malfoy takes a step forward. "I said, who the—"

"Oh, calm down, Draco," I say, finishing my whisky. "I'll vacate the room. Let you two have your fun."

Hermione's blinking. "Do I know you from—"

"Nope," I say, standing and walking over. I reach past them for the doorknob and pause to stare at Hermione. "Look, power plays can be really hot during sex, but I've read a lot of abusive Dramione, alright? Don't let him call you the m-word during. It's degrading."

Her mouth drops open and Malfoy sneers. "I would _never_ —"

"Good," I say loudly, and I make my exit.

Through the door, I hear Malfoy ask, "What the fuck is a Dramione?"

x

"There you are!" Tasha grabs my arm from the corner of the ballroom, where I've been watching Charlie dance with some brunette for the last four minutes and thirty-three seconds. "We've all been looking for you. Charlie especially."

"What, between dances?"

Tasha glances at the dance floor. "Oh, Greta. That's one of our supervisors. She's _married_." Then she gives me a long look. "What's going on with you? You missed dinner, the speeches. Where have you been?"

I shake my head. "Drinking firewhisky with the kitchen staff. Catching people sneaking off to fuck." Listening to Charlie's ex weep in the bathroom. Feeling sorry as hell for myself.

I stumble a little and she grabs my arm. "When's the last time you've eaten?" she asks. "I mean, besides a handful of raspberries?"

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, there's a little tune from a French horn. She and I both turn to see a tall man in violet and gold robes on the stage, which, when did they bring that in? I swear, there wasn't a stage here an hour ago.

Magic, I remind myself. I look around and grab a glass of wine from a tray.

"Maybe you should hold off on that," Tasha whispers.

"I'll be slow," I say, but I'm lying and I think she knows it, too.

"Thank you, again, for attending the third annual Gala for Peace and Unity," the man says. Everyone claps and cheers.

"Who's that?" I whisper.

"The Minister of Magic. Kingsley."

"It's with great pleasure that I pull the name of our first contestant for the Charms and Enchantments Competition. As a reminder, all proceeds raised tonight will be awarded to muggleborn and muggle charities."

There's more clapping as a gold bowl levitates into his hands. He pulls a tiny scroll and unravels it. "Oak Boarstein, please." Kingsley swoops his arm like a welcome to the stage. "Dazzle us."

A fellow with locs and green robes runs up. "Thank you, Mr. Minister," he says, pulling out his wand. "I have to thank the folks behind Weasley Wizarding Wheezes for helping me prep for this one."

"OAK, MY BLOKE!" I turn and see George raising a glass of champagne at the stage. Polite laughter ensues.

"That pun was _oak_ -kay," Tasha whispers, snorting.

I shake my head. "Terrible."

Oak points his wand up, whispering, and blue smoke shoots out, circling and swirling overhead, and soon enough, the mass of mist has flesh and scales and eyes. A fucking dragon now flies over us.

The audience gasps, folks pointing up here and there. The dragon dips down, the wind from its wings beats against us. If I reach up when it goes over me and Tasha, I can almost... slide… my hand over its slick, shimmery skin.

I do! I touch it! It's _freezing_. I wasn't expecting that.

Before I can giggle with drunken delight, I catch the face of Inspector Beech. He leans against one of the library columns, his eyes large and set on me. Goosebumps run along my arms. I get the strangest feeling of déjà vu, so strongly that I feel a bit weak. But then I _blink_ , and all of a sudden, Charlie's there, his absurdly broad shoulders blocking my view.

The blue dragon roars and dissolves into bits of fake fire. Charlie's looking into my eyes with a fury that matches the flames that land all around us.

There're hoots and hollers and I can't make out what Charlie is saying. His hand is on my hip and he leans in. "Where's Sirius?" he asks. His voice is gruff and cold.

"Off with Luna," I respond.

Charlie narrows his eyes, like he's not sure whether or not to believe me.

" _What_ is your deal?" I hiss.

He huffs. "First of all, my witch practically climbed Black like a tree tonight in the bloody middle of the gala," he says, holding up one finger. "And then they disappear to do gods know what, gods know where." He lifts a second, then a third. "And, Anja is missing."

I scoff. "First of all," I say, lifting my own dumb finger, " _my_ wizard practically _tripped_ over his _dick_ when his fuck-friend showed up with gold _nipples_. Second, I'm drunker than I have been in possibly _ever._ " I make my eyes big to emphasize my point. "And third? Well. I can't even think of one, that's how trashed I am."

He opens his mouth to respond, but we're interrupted with the next witch's charm of growing a _forest_ all around us in, like, six seconds. I jump back when a redwood tree sprouts full-sized in front of Charlie, ivy crawling at our feet to cover the floor. Charlie just walks around the tree, completely unfazed, his fists clenched.

"Do you have the relic?" he asks.

"What?"

"The relic the Death Eaters are looking for. It's a weapon. A dagger, a sword, something. You've got it, don't you?"

I stare at him for three seconds as the trees melt all around us. "What?"

"You've been acting awfully suspicious since we got here, Greta. I saw you speaking with Beech and it looked… _comfortable_ to me. Snape thinks he's—" Charlie looks around, lowers his voice as he pulls me to the side. "Snape thinks he's the one who's—"

"How fucking dare you." I snap my hand away. "That idiot has been watching me all night like I'm a piece of fucking filet mignon; now you're accusing me of being in cahoots with the creep?"

"All I'm saying—"

"No. All _I'm_ saying, right now, is I'm _not_ the fucking witch they're looking for. Sirius told me. My father's a muggle. Just like I said."

Charlie's mouth stays open.

"That's right, you buffoon. I'll be heading back to Jersey with Viggo now."

"When." His voice sounds really weird and his jaw is clenched, his eyes directly on the wall behind me.

I shrug. "Who the hell—"

"Greta Riverstone!"

Charlie and I both whip our heads toward the stage.

"Greta Riverstone, if you would," Kingsley says, looking around with a smile. "Please, come and dazzle us."

* * *

 _Thank you to Laree for "Hookington Tramp Factory," one of many glorious puns._


	19. Songbird

_TW: scenes of torture in this chapter._

* * *

 _When the idea for this fic fell into my head, I was listening to the artist Jasmine Thompson pretty much nonstop. She's got the most gorgeous, witchy, mystical voice- exactly what I'd imagine "singing magic" sounds like. And in the middle of plotting this chapter, I listened to her cover 7 Years (originally by Lukas Graham) and could see this song affecting the wizarding world very deeply, with most folk having just been through a war and losing loved ones._

 _So, if you'd like the full 3D experience of this chapter, I implore you to pull up the Youtube video of Jasmine Thompson's 7 Years and play it at the opportune time._

* * *

It feels like everything is on me. Everyone's gazes, the spotlights, even some leftover leaves from the last _bedazzlement_.

"You signed yourself up for the competition?" Charlie whispers.

"Of course I didn't," I hiss back as Kingsley announces my name again.

"She's right here!" someone shouts. I turn and glare at Rune, who's grinning. "One problem, though. Riverstone is a _Squib_!"

Now everyone really stares. And gasps. And acts like Squibhood is worse than, I don't know. Leprosy? They even jump out of my way as I walk to the stage, giving me such berth that I may as well be spitting fire.

I'm near the stage when something grabs my arm. I snatch it away as Inspector Beech smiles, his eyes right on mine. "Sing," he says, but somehow, his mouth doesn't move.

Christ, I am way drunker than I thought.

"Don't touch me," I say, stumbling a bit. "And don't think things at me, either!"

Beech just smiles, stepping back into the shadows.

Mercifully, I make it on the stage without falling on my ass. Kingsley's there, smiling, but his eyes reveal some concern. Beside him stands— who else?- Harry freaking Potter.

They approach me on the side of the stage. "Greta," Harry says. "Did you sign up for this?"

I shake my head.

"Merlin." Harry covers his eyes. "It's fifth year all over again."

"Harry. She needs to perform something." Kingsley's eyes are on me the whole while.

Harry rubs at the dark scruff on his jawline. "You did all the curse checks?"

"They were done by Mad-Eye himself."

"Uh," I say. "I can barely _accio_ anything, much less—"

"Then just _accio_ something," Harry says. "It's an old competition, this one. There are wards on it. Once you sign up, that's it. You have to perform something, anything. It doesn't even have to be magical. Or else—" Harry glances at Kingsley.

"Or else it won't be very bedazzling," Kingsley says, finally addressing me. "Let's just leave it at that."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." I huff. "This is such _stupid_ fanfic logic! You're all _wizards_! Make up a new competition that doesn't, I don't know, kill everyone if one of the participants comes down with the flu-"

Kingsley whispers loudly to Harry, "Don't we need Ms. Riverstone to be seen as a Squib?"

"Not anymore," I say. They both stare at me expectantly. "What, none of you have spoken to Sirius yet? What kind of investigation is this? What kind of investigators are _you_ , for that matter?"

"Last I saw, he ran off with Luna," Harry says, pink touching his cheekbones. "Some broom closet—" He coughs a bit.

"So you can _accio_ , Greta?" Kingsley cracks his knuckles.

I gulp, glancing at the crowd. Folks talk with one another, some peer at us with curiosity. I see Creeper Breech, his wide eyes unblinking.

But then I spot Rune. Her arms crossed, a smirk on her face that rivals any Malfoy's. Like she's just waiting to _roast_ me.

I put my hands on my hips. "I can play piano."

Harry blinks, turns to Kingsley.

"Just transfigure one for me," I say. When he hesitates, I add, "You said I don't have to do magic!"

"But—"

"Harry. Don't let me humiliate myself. I've only _accio'd_ something once. Or maybe twice."

"You don't want to risk her failing, not under these wards," Kingsley says.

"Right." Harry pushes up his glasses. He grabs a parchment from his pocket, tosses it to the middle of the stage. While it's in the air he waves his wand, and before I can blink, there's a piano. And god, it's _nice_. Concert grand, its legs adorned with silver carvings, its surfaces so shiny I can see the fine embroidery of my dress all the way across the stage. Some fucking Alicia Keys shit, that is.

I gulp, ignoring the smack of whispers in the audience. "Can you— can you make sure everyone will hear it?"

"The whole middle of the stage is charmed to amplify sounds," Kingsley says. "They'll hear everything." He gives me a reassuring smile. "It doesn't have to be magnificent, Greta. Just do something short and sweet. Then we can get on with the contest."

I nod. "Yeah. Thanks."

I approach the piano bench, my heels clicking like a timer. My breath is erratic. I force myself to breathe deeply. Remember, this is just a make-believe fairy tale _fanfic_. So calm the flip down, Greta.

I take a seat. "This really shouldn't count," I hear someone whisper. "Have you heard?" sounds another voice. "She's a Squib!"

"Prejudiced fucks," I say under my breath, but Jesus, Kingsley was right. Everything is amplified. I turn to their faces of shock and clear my throat. "I mean, I'm going to play a song tonight. A cover of a song. By a muggle band."

There's a few snickers and I can only assume by mentioning "muggle" that I've made this absurdly shitty situation worse. I wonder if I should explain the song a bit, but I see Kingsley off stage nodding his head vigorously, with a sort of get-on-with-it motion of the fingers, and so I put my hands on the keys and begin.

"Once I was seven years old," I begin, and my voice is so soft, I don't know if it's enough. But there's a stillness all around us, and I don't hear whispers or giggles anymore.

I think it's enough.

My mother told me that to heal someone with your voice, you have to lost yourself in it, each word becomes its own universe, the creation and destruction of it all on your tongue. And you sing to someone, always. Best to sing someone you love.

But I don't know who I'm singing to. Not Potter or Kingsley. Not Charlie, because all I can think about is him staring at Dumb Gold Nipples, and certainly not Beech, even though he's the ass who demanded I effing sing in the first place.

I glance down at my lap. Well, I'll guess I'll sing to these goddamn butterflies.

Magic is so stupidly beautiful. I hadn't noticed earlier, but the butterflies are lined with silvery glitter, and each time they flutter their wings, some flies off like dust. And I think about this song, about how it spans the whole of someone's life, wondering if they will end up alone or not, wondering who they'll leave behind along the way. And for lack of a better phrase, I pour my whole heart into it.

When I come to the crescendo, the bridge, when I'm singing about reaching sixty years old and god- I'm only thirty now but that doesn't seem all that far away- and something insane happens, so much so that my voice cracks.

A butterfly flies up off my dress and into the audience.

I press my fingers even more deeply into the keys, practically hitting them, and I sing louder, the wings of ten, twenty, hundreds of butterflies all around me, fluttering into the ballroom.

When I reach the final words of the song, the piano is covered in dusty glitter. As I glance up, I see thousands of butterflies, some landing on people, lots near the ceiling, hundreds along the book spines in the walls. But no one's as covered as Charlie. His eyes are on mine and he looks absurdly enchanted, like he hasn't even noticed that purple wings line his arms, his chest, his belly. There's even a few in his hair. He looks like a fairy king, like he can lift his hand and command armies of pixies.

I'm singing to someone after all.

And there's a jolt in my spine. I'm finishing the last notes and the audience, after too many moments of silence, is finally clapping and hooting, many wiping their eyes. But I can't bow or do anything decent like that. Nope, Greta Riverstone can only run off the stage, past Harry, past Kingsley, past the butterflies on the curtains, off into the hallway.

I don't stop until I've reached the coat room. There, I run my hands over the bags, tossing a couple to the ground like an asshole, stopping when I find the one Tasha lent me.

I pull out my list. My fucking list. Because you know what? Singing Mary Sues is a thing. And a Mary Sue who sings butterflies out of her dress, who makes half the audience weep? That's, like, a thousand Mary Sue points. Or maybe even a hundred thousand.

Before I can open the parchment, there's a hand on my mouth. "Gotcha." The voice is deep and dull.

Okay, I think. Good one, George. But the grip tightens on my mouth, and there's another at my chest, keeping my arms back. It hurts. I open my mouth and bite.

"Fucking _bitch_."

I whip around. I've never seen these two guys before in my life.

"Christ, Goyle," one says, jumping back around me, restraining my arms. "Stupefy her, already!"

I drop my weight, causing the fellow behind me to stumble. The spell hits the wall. "Who are you?" I shriek, curling my hands into fists. "What do you want?" The guy behind me grabs my torso. Goyle stomps forward, wand out.

"Stupefy," he responds. It doesn't answer any of my questions, but it sure as fuck knocks me out.

x

"Rennervate."

It's as though someone splashes ice water on me. I gasp and glance around. The first thing I register is it's dark. And there are trees, their leaves lit by dim moonlight. And, yeah, I'm stuck to one of them. Not with rope or anything, but with a sticking charm like Annette uses to pin Viggo on my back. I try to stretch, but it's hopeless. It's like I'm super-glued to this enormous trunk. I don't have much time to process this information, though. Because some idiot walks up and slaps me.

I want to shout several obscenities at the fucker, but the only thing that comes out is a grunt, because _damn_ , that hurt. The whole right side of my face throbs. I whirl my head to look at the wand-lit face of a skinny man. Not Goyle. The other one, I suppose.

"And that, precious, is for biting my hand." He lifts his mouth into what might be a grin, but it resembles a snarl more than anything else.

"She awake, Yaxley?" Goyle is several yards away, but I can't tell in which direction.

"Yeah, she's up."

"You done with her yet?"

Yaxley, I guess, sighs. "For Salazar's sake, Goyle, it's been twelve seconds. Don't worry, mate, you'll get your bloody turn."

Oh, god. This officially sounds way worse than it looks. But Yaxley just looks back at me, ignoring my whimper. "Well, princess. Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

This time, he uses his fist. "Was hoping you'd play dumb for a bit." He sounds gleeful. I can't look up quite yet, though, as I am busy attempting to spit blood onto his boots without the actual sensations of moving my mouth.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The words sound warbled. "I'm serious."

This time, he hits me square in the ribs. I can't breathe for nearly a half a minute. Jesus, for being so skinny, this idiot's got some momentum going.

When I can breathe again, I make use of it. "Someone! Someone help me!"

His hand is over my mouth before I can finish. "Don't scream," he says, his breath on my aching cheekbone. "You won't quite like what happens if you scream."

The second he lifts his hand, I let out the loudest, blood-curdling scream I can muster.

He grins. "Beautiful." He flicks his wand at me. " _Crucio_."

It's as if my body has been dipped in scalding water, only that water is made of machetes, and they're sliding in to my skin and digging. It hurts too much to scream.

"Did you like that?"

I want to say something brave, like, _is that all you've got, assface?_ But I can't, because _Christ_ I don't ever want to feel that again. Ever.

"What do you want?" My voice is unrecognizable, like it's a heave from deep in my chest. Though the pain is gone, my body is tense and shakes.

"You know what we want."

"No, I don't. Please. I don't."

" _Crucio_."

x

I don't know how long it's been. Twenty minutes? Twelve hours?

One of them, I can't tell which, has nicked up my throat and chest and arms with a blade. Drips of blood stain my dress, my beautiful forest fairy gown. I can barely feel my arms and legs. Everything's just numb. Somehow, that's not enough to stop the Cruciatus Curse from rippling through me. It's like the longer we go, the stronger they get.

This is not what happens to Mary Sues, is it? I can barely think, but I don't really remember one having such poor fucking luck like this. Mary Sues always get rescued before the torture comes. Like, _just_ before, so they need to be comforted and doted upon, but not after. Rarely after.

I don't want to think about what's next if I'm not the Mary Sue.

"Fine," I croak. "I'll let you have it, okay? But it's in my cabin. I'll take you right to it."

"Yeah?" says Goyle. "What is it, then?"

"You know what it is." I taste blood as I speak.

"Oh no," says Yaxley. "You're gonna tell us exactly where it is. And we're gonna get it our bloody selves."

Oh, Lord. "It's in my cabin. In the freezer."

"What's it doing in there for?" Goyle's head turns and he reminds me of an especially pudgy bulldog.

"She's lying."

Oh, great. Someone else has arrived. 'Cause that's exactly what this party needs, another psychopath.

When the new fellow steps into the wand light, it's all I can do to not groan.

"I knew it," I say to Beech. "I knew you were… were…" My head hurts so bad, I can scarcely think of a way to finish the sentence. "A _very bad man_."

Beech, in turn, laughs. "And I knew you were the singing witch. Gods, I _knew_ it, and I was _right_." He smacks his lips triumphantly, like he's presenting a pasta dish, not approaching a torture victim.

"Uh, how do you know she's lying?" Goyle asks, and Beech hits him with his cane.

"You two are the worst Legilimens I've ever met. I could see the girl was foxing you from twenty yards away!"

Something odd is happening to Beech's face. The mustache is gone. Like, it was there just a second ago, wasn't it? And his legs. They're growing.

I have drank far more than I have in my life. I know this for a fact, because when I look up again, it's not Beech's face anymore. It's Barty BugEyes.

His limbs are wild and snakey, and he glides his fingers down my jawline. "Hello, princess," he says, coming so close that his lips are on my cheek. "Good to see me, yeah?"

x

So Barty Crouch, Jr. has really gotten the Cruciatus Curse down. I mean, when Tweedledee and Tweedledum flung it at me, it only felt like I was being stabbed with machetes, but Crouch, man. It's more like being ground up into freakin' _mulch_.

"You really don't know, do you?" Crouch stares into my eyes, but he has to do it on a knee, because I can't lift my head up anymore. If I weren't bleeding out on this tree trunk, someone happening upon us might find our stances romantic. Crouch smiles. "Your husband knew. He knew what I needed. And he didn't provide me, Greta. And looked what happened to him."

I spit out some blood and nearly laugh. Of course my subconscious is gonna pull Luke into this. "What? The brooch?" Tears sting my eyes, and I squeeze them tight. "You want that ugly old thing? Christ, why didn't you just say so?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Barty's lips are on me again, this time at my neck.

I know I shouldn't tell him _shit_ , but I don't know how much more of this I can take. "It's— it's in my—"

"Yes?" he says, teasing his tongue over one of the cuts. I don't have the energy to, but I shudder. _What_ is wrong with this dude? Is it normal for Death Eaters to be so _literally_ blood-thirsty?

"Crouch," Goyle barks from somewhere. "One of the wards has been dismantled."

"Bloody founders—" Crouch stands, his eyes wider and wilder than I've ever seen them. "I'll be back for the brooch, princess," he says, facing me.

I scoff. "Really? You think I'm just going to keep it nice and cozy for your next visit, do you?"

He rests his hand on my face. "Oh, you will. Because what you felt tonight, by our wands? By Yaxley's knife? You don't want any harm like that to come upon your little baby boy, do you?"

The dread in my stomach may as well be Yaxley's knife, trying to cut its way out.

"Viggo, was it? Such a strange name. What made you choose it?"

"The actor who played Aragorn in Lord of the Rings." I'm whispering it, and he smiles because he knows, he freaking _knows_ just like I do that I'm going to protect the shit out of that ugly gold snake. Because now I know I can't count on anyone— not Snape, not Harry, not, god, not even Charlie, to keep us safe from these assfaces.

"Good girl." He pats my head and whips out his wand. In a puff of moonlit smoke, he's gone.

"Crouch?" calls Goyle. Or maybe the other one. I don't know anymore. "Crouch, what do you want— ah, _fuck_!"

There's a mutiny of footsteps trampling around me. Some of the leaves of this tree I'm stuck to fall. One sticks to a spot of blood on my chest.

Something pointy is at my neck, digging into one of the cuts. I yelp.

"Riverstone."

I look up at Moody's crazy, spinning eye. "What took you so long?" I croak.

He grunts to his wand until it's lit and looks at me up and down, then glances around. "Where is he? Where'd that bastard go?"

"Crouch, you mean?"

Moody's eyes settles on me again. "You mean to tell me, that the Inspector—" His wand is at my neck again. "Who was Riverstone's escort to the gala this evening?"

Without any warning, I remember the knife in my stomach. "Viggo!" I shriek. "Have you seen my son? He's only two, god, and if they—"

Out of nowhere, Snape appears. "Your son is fine. He is with Ms. Taren as we speak."

Mad-eye's wand digs deeper into my neck. "You didn't answer—"

"Charlie! It was Charlie, alright? Stop it, would you? That _hurts_." Mad-Eye drops his wand. I honestly don't know what that was supposed to prove, considering lots of folks saw me enter the ball with the fool. I can't voice this, though, because—

"Ms. Riverstone!" Snape sounds genuinely shocked and I'm assuming it's due to state I'm in. He, at least, has the decency to unpeel me from the wall, muttering spells that take an edge off the pain. He throws one of my arms over his shoulder.

"We're going to the infirmary."

When he apparates us, I don't consciously reach the next destination. There's just nothing, like I'm in the deepest of sleeps.

* * *

 _Thank you for such lovely reviews. Seriously, they give me life._


	20. Don't Think About D-cks, Greta

_I know, I know. It's been ages. My apologies, everyone! I've been totally burnt out on writing for a few weeks. Thank you all SO much for your patience._

* * *

When I next open my eyes, I don't take any time to start yelping. "Viggo," I say, whipping my head around.

"He's right here," a woman responds. I turn and blink at… at Hermione Granger. I mean, of course. Of course I'm still hallucinating the wizarding mind-fuck of Harry Potter.

She looks wildly different in jeans and a green sweater, but there's the cheekbones, the freckles, the pretty brown eyes. It's definitely her.

She's gesturing to toddler bed on the other side of mine, where Viggo sleeps peacefully. I let out a gush of air I hadn't realized I'd been holding in and drop my head back on the pillow.

"Do-do you remember what happened to you?"

I think she's referring to last night's particularly cruel brand of Death Eater fun times, but truly, the question could've been asked every day since I arrived here. "It's not an easy thing to forget."

"I know." She crosses her arms. "How do you feel?"

I shrug. I mean, I feel like I've been tortured for hours. What else could I say?

"Here." She passes me a glass of water, which I suck in like air. "You hungry yet?" she asks when I've drained the glass.

"No."

"You will be ravenous soon. If my experience is anything to go by." She uncrosses her arms. "I should probably call the Healer…"

"Wait a minute." I glance around. "Where is everyone?" I know I haven't been in Pottertown all that long, but shit, doesn't anyone care enough to see if I awaken after a couple hours of being cut up by Bug Eyes?

"Snape, Moody and Harry are interrogating Yaxley and Goyle. They'll be here soon, to ask questions. Annette and Tasha went to grab a bite. They forced Charlie to go home. He, ah, needed sleep. And food. And to shower."

To shower? "How long have I been out?"

She nods. "Three days."

"What?" I sit up and fall back down.

"Don't— you should've move so quickly. We're not sure how much nerve damage you've sustained. Here, I'll call the Healer."

While she does something with her wand, I grab my breasts. They're not hard as rocks. Am I not lactating anymore? How long does it take to dry up? I've been meaning to wean Viggo, but shit, it's going to be a bitch to get him to nap now.

"Do they hurt?" Hermione's staring at my hands, which still clutch at my chest.

I drop them. "No, just checking. They're still there."

She raises an eyebrow, suppressing a smile, but the edges of her lips give it away. "Everything else in order, too?"

I wiggle my fingers and toes. "I mean, everything's sore as hell, but I guess I feel normal."

She stares at my feet under the blanket. "Good."

"Hello!" I jump back at the bellow of some elderly woman in lavender robes. "How you feeling, darling?"

She hovers her wand about three feet over me. "Uh— I—"

"Can you move your feet?"

I do it without thinking.

"Well done! How long have you been awake?"

"Um, I mean—"

"Oh, ah, we definitely need to get some food in you. I'll send an order to the cafe. Breakfast sandwich? Bacon? Eggs?"

My stomach growls. Jesus. "I can't eat bread, but I'll eat all the bacon and eggs they've got."

The old woman laughs. It sounds like the shatter of glass. Even Hermione winces.

"Oh, gosh, you are a charmer. Well, let's get some breakfast in you. And then we'll see if you can walk or not!" She bounces away, leaving the door open.

"If I can walk or not?"

Hermione nods. "Partial paralysis is common after the Cruciatus. Common and temporary."

"Mama?" Viggo's sitting up, rubbing an eye.

I whip my legs off the bed and push up. "Baby?" I take a step and fall, my hands catching me with a slap against the tile. "Shit."

"Mama!" Viggo giggles. At least someone is happy.

"Here," Hermione helps me up and back to the bed. "I'll bring him to you, okay?"

I hug Viggo to my chest the second he reaches me. "Mama," he says. "Mama, mama, mama, BACON. BACON BACON BACON BA-"

I turn my head. Someone's wheeled in a cart with my breakfast and Viggo's clawing at my shoulders, trying to lunge himself at it.

"Jesus," I say. "Didn't you miss Mama more than bacon?"

"BACON!"

I laugh and pull him toward the tray. I hand him a slice of bacon. "BACON!"

"Yes, dear, it's bacon." I grab a fork. Before I shove eggs into my mouth, I glance at Hermione, who's back in the chair. "No offense or anything. But what are you doing here?"

She nods. "It's a bit of a story."

I want to say, enlighten me, but there's too much bacon in my mouth. I think she gets the hint, though.

"It all started when Harry got a call from Anja. About three months ago. She said a woman and a child had arrived on the reserve, quite out of thin air…"

x

"So, you're a historian or something?"

Hermione takes a sip of coffee. "A researcher. I spent a lot of time in libraries." She smiles and there's the slightest flush to her cheeks. "The only reason I came here for the ball, really."

I bite my lip. "But you found nothing on my family?"

"Just like Sirius, I didn't find much. But after a bit, I stopped looking at the specifics and started looking at the big picture."

"The big picture."

Hermione nods. "The whole history of magic in the Americas."

"Ah," I say, even though I don't understand a word she's saying anymore.

"You're tired."

It's not a question. I haven't been able to keep my eyes open for more than ten seconds for a while now.

"It's to be expected," she says. "After I was— well, after something similar happened to me, I spent the following week slumbering at all hours." She stands. "We can continue this later."

I glance at Viggo, who's wrapped around my belly, his eyes closed, breath long and heavy. I sigh and lean back on the pillow. "I just need a little nap. That's all."

She pats my arm. Or, at least I think she does. I pass out well before she leaves.

x

I dream of Charlie. Of his arms, his chest, everything pressed up against me all warm and firm and smelling like he does, all sexy, delicious oranges. But then I stretch my back a little, and my head falls off something warm and firm, right onto the soft and cold blanket. "Ouch." That didn't help the pounding headache I've been registering since speaking with Hermione.

"Greta." A gruff grumble from the mountain next to me. "Are you okay?"

I open my eyes and about choke. It's Charlie, his hair pointed this and that way, the cuts of his muscles very appealing through his thin white tee.

My voice is stuck somewhere in my heart, I think. I don't understand why seeing him would this sort of effect on me— I mean, we've been living together for months now— but it's as though someone sucked all the breath from my chest.

"Is everything all right?" His voice is softer now and he grabs my hand, engulfing it with his.

"Where's Viggo?" I look around, ignoring the fact that I sound like a drunken old man.

"He's with Annette and Tash. Getting dinner." Charlie eases me back in his arms.

"But we just had breakfast."

Charlie laughs. "That was about eleven hours ago, Sleeping Beauty."

"Merlin."

Charlie laughs again, and even though each rumble makes my head ache a touch more, I welcome the sound with a half smile. "Merlin, huh? You sound like one of us now."

My smile drops a little. Do I? Am I adapting to the Potter delusion so well that when I come out of it, I'll be hitching on broomsticks and grabbing for my wand?

Speaking of which… "Where's my wand?" I glance down at the mint green nightgown.

"Nightstand."

Ah. Okay. I don't know why, but being near my wand is preferable. Maybe since it's my only defense against bug-eyed, homicidal freakshows.

"Greta." I turn my head toward Charlie and my breath hitches again. He looks so beautiful, his eyes so amber, the scruff on his jaw grown out and rough. The look he gives me is wretched.

"What is it?" I can barely whisper it.

"I- I just want to say I'm sorry for being such a—" He drops his head against my shoulder. "Such an arse. To you. You don't deserve— I didn't realize— I should've never let you bloody sing, knowing you hadn't agreed to— and then when we realized you were missing, Godric Almighty."

I lean closer to him, until I'm practically on top.

"If it's anyone's fault, Charlie, it's Barty Crouch's."

When the name leaves my lips, Charlie glances up again, his jaw tight, eyes fiery. His hands run along the wounds on my arm, nearly halfway to healed already, the scabs loose and dry. "If I see that piece of shite… he is going to fucking regret—"

"Hey," I say. "Let's talk about more pleasant things."

Charlie sighs and smiles. "Like that butterfly magic you failed to tell me you could do?"

I snort. "It was news to me too, let me tell you."

"And your voice? Christ, Greta, it was like you were singing inside me. Did you know you could do that?"

I bite my lip for a moment before I slide my leg up his. He gasps and I realize a bit too late that I've brushed right against his… yeah. My body responds immediately to the heat and hardness poking at my thigh. Just as suddenly, though, I realize I haven't even seen a toothbrush in more than three days, not to mention a shower, and I pull back. "Sorry."

But he doesn't seem to hear me. In fact, Charlie's pupils are blown and, Christ, he won't stop staring at my lips. His, for that matter, are parted and so very pink, and his tongue darts out just a touch. I pull back even further. What is he thinking?! Doesn't he realize my toothbrush problem? Can't he see that I look like shit (something even I know as a fact without seeing a mirror)?

No. Apparently not. Because right now, Charlie Weasley is staring at me as though I'm his bride or his soul or a glass of water after a week long desert-journey.

He swallows and I watch the bob of his Adam's apple. "Greta, I-"

"Riverstone."

Both Charlie and I jump back from one another as Snape walks in, Harry skittering behind.

"Snape," Harry mutters. "I told you they were in the middle of—"

"Riverstone, we need to know what happened after you… sang." Snape crosses his arms as his robes snap with his turn. "Every detail. Now."

"Can this wait?" Charlie asks, pushing his torso up. "She's still bloody hurt and can't even walk, can't you see—"

"Then I suppose it's fortuitous that the exchange of information doesn't require walking."

I roll my eyes and place a hand on Charlie's taut forearm. "It's fine." I lean back, closing my eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

x

"So they didn't tell you what it is?"

"Crouch told me." I close my eyes and lean back on the pillow, fighting a yawn. "He's looking for a brooch."

"A brooch." Snape sounds incredulous.

I keep my eyes closed. Don't need Snape to peek around in my brain for the lies I know are coming next.

"And you don't have it," Harry says.

I shake my head. "If I did, I wouldn't be in this shape, would I?"

"What does the brooch look like? Did anyone mention any details?" Harry asks. From the projection of his voice, it sounds like he's pacing around my bed.

"He said it was gold. I didn't hear much else. I mean, I screamed a lot while he spoke."

There's silence for a long moment. "Ms. Riverstone. Look at me."

I groan and peer into the black eyes of Severus Snape. I can feel him trying to get his long, slender fingers inside my brain and memories.

I recollect Crouch's gleeful smile as I wept, begging him to stop. You didn't protect me, I think as loud as I can. Snape blinks, breaking the connection. But he narrows his eyes and, fuck, probes deeper.

How do I keep him from seeing the brooch, all shiny and stupid and beautiful, hiding in my purse?

A light bulb goes off. Snape senses it and edges his way there. I take a breath and begin my inner mantra.

Don't think about dicks, don't think about dicks, god, it's been so long since I've seen a dick, what I wouldn't give to see Charlie's again, did the carpet match the drapes? I can't remember now, Christ, I bet Snape has hairy balls, oh, god, why am I thinking about Snape's hairy balls—

"That's enough, Ms. Riverstone." Snape looks rather disgusted, which, yeah, I had been picturing unnaturally hairy balls. He stares at me for a beat and I wonder if he knows I'm lying, but his face gives nothing away.

"How's Anja?" Charlie asks.

Shit. She went missing, right? Am I remembering that right? God, I'm such an asshole for completely forgetting—

"She's well. Hasn't regained consciousness yet, but we believe Crouch took her wife hostage to obtain the most... desirable results."

"God," I say. "Is her wife alright?"

"Yes. Appears to have been obliviated of all her time under Crouch's… care, but the mind healers are regaining some of what she's lost."

I stifle a yawn, but it comes anyway. "You should get some rest," Harry says.

"Are you kidding?" I ask. "I haven't eaten since seven this morning. I need, like, a steak first. And a burger and a whole chocolate pie. Covered in whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Ooh, and sprinkles."

Charlie chuckles, standing. "Ay, ay, captain." He bends and places a kiss on my cheek. "Be back in a moment."

"Thanks," I say, wondering if I should tell him I'm not certain I actually can put all that food away, but then I remember Charlie certainly could all by himself and probably wouldn't mind helping. So I just watch him go.

"You'll need to move out of Romania," Snape says, tearing my attention away from Charlie's ass before he disappears out the door.

"Where to?"

Snape lifts his shoulders just a touch, in a very graceful, Snape-like shrug.

"Think on it," Harry says. "And let us know."

I blink. "Hold on a minute. You guys… you investigators. Have been controlling my every move since Viggo and I got here. Just, what, two months ago, you stopped me from leaving. And now you're just gonna let us go wherever we want?"

Snape remains expressionless, but Harry looks a bit sheepish. "Look, Greta. I'm going to apologize for…" He glances at Snape. "For all of us. Because we royally fucked up. We didn't realize Anja was compromised soon enough. We should've gotten you out of Romania as soon as we knew Crouch figured you were here. And, with everything that happened to you three nights ago." He glances at my neck and chest and winces. "It just… it shouldn't have."

He has a seat next to me. "We don't know if Crouch is still after you, so we have to keep you somewhere well warded."

I snort. "Warded like the gala was?"

Harry nods, frowning. "Anja got them in through those wards. I'm sorry." He swallows. "But, yeah, think about where you'd like to spend some time. Our only objective now is to protect you."

I blink. "You mean you're not after Crouch anymore."

Harry grimaces. "We are. But we're not counting on finding him anytime soon. The bastard, he's…. clever. But our main focus, I mean, is you. When we do get him, Greta, then you will be free. You and your baby. Until then, I promise, we will keep you safe. If you'll allow us."

I glance down, thinking about the brooch. Should I tell them? I almost do, almost let it slip right out like rain.

But suppose they slip up again, just like they've done a thousand time? One thought to Viggo and Crouch's threat and I just nod my head. "Okay. I'll think about it and let you know where would be good."

There's a flash and a clap, and suddenly, Sirius stands in front of Snape.

"Songbird," he says leaning towards me, grabbing my hand. His lips find my forehead. "Jesus." He pulls back, glancing at my arms and… well, everything, I guess. "No one told me about them bloody slicing you."

I shrug, smiling. "They're just nicks."

"If you remember anything else at all, Riverstone," Snape says. He glares at Sirius before apparating away with a boom.

Harry turns to Sirius. "Did Moody relieve you at interrogations?"

Sirius snorted. "More like forced me away thirty bloody minutes early."

"And you left him alone with them?"

Sirius shrugs. "It's been five minutes, Harry. What could he possibly do?"

Harry groans. "You know better than that, Sirius."

Sirius runs his fingers along my forearm. "They deserve whatever they're getting. I can say that with full certainty, Harry."

"Right. Well, I better go before Moody murders them."

"See you at the Center," Sirius says.

Harry nods at us as he makes for the door.

Sirius smiles sadly. "Greta, I just—"

"Please, don't."

He blinks.

"I mean, don't apologize. Everyone's already said it a hundred times, and, Sirius, you didn't do anything wrong. Jesus."

"I left you, Songbird—"

"In the middle of a freakin' party, Sirius. Not by myself. And, uh, for the love of your life? Please." I smile. "How are things with Luna?"

A rosy stain is on his cheeks and I can't help but grin. I mean, Sirius! Black! Is Blushing!

"That good, huh?"

He laughs, glancing down. "A hell of a lot bloody better than good, I'd say."

x

"Here we are," Charlie pushes a tray in the room. "We've got your ribeye steak, the cheese—" He pauses when he sees Sirius, sitting at my bedside, hand on mine. "Er—" Charlie coughs. "Dinner. Is here."

"Just checking on our Songbird, Moose," Sirius says, standing. "I'll let you have your dinner. Gotta get back to Luna, anyhow."

Charlie says nothing as Sirius squeezes my hand. "Be well. I'll see you soon." He winks and whisks his lovely, lean body out the door.

Charlie sits, clearing his throat. "Here, we've got everything the lady ordered. Except for pie. They didn't have any gluten-free pie crust. So there's chocolate pudding with whipped cream. I hope that's alright."

"It's perfect," I say after swallowing a bite of steak. "You want any?" He shakes his head.

I almost finish the whole thing. Almost. I push away a half a bowl of pudding, saying, "Christ. I can't do anymore."

Charlie gives me a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He grabs the plates, stacking them on the tray.

"I'll be right back," I say, jumping up. Jesus Christ on a graham cracker, that was a bad idea. I wobble and Charlie catches me.

"Woah," he says. "Where you off to?"

"The bathroom." I lean on him. How in the hell can a man smell so absurdly good? How? Did he bathe himself in ab water before delivering my meal?

I'm about to lick his arm by the time we reach the restroom. "I got it from here," I say, stepping in.

"You sure?"

"Yes." The last thing I want is assistance peeing from a red-haired demi-god, thank you very much.

I about scream with relief when I find a bag of my toiletries in here. Some angel must've dropped them off earlier. Probably Tasha. I should make her cookies.

I brush my teeth and freshen up as best as I can. After pinning my hair up, though, I feel like I'm going to fall over again. "Charlie?"

He shoves the door open so fast, I realize he must've been listening on the other side. I don't know whether to feel heart-warmed or creeped out. But, no, my heart does the warming thing without any help on my part.

As Charlie gently walks me to bed, lifting my legs and pulling up the blanket. The feel of his hands on my skin does very, very bad warming things to other parts of my body. Or good warming things, I guess, depending on how you look at it.

I glance at his pretty brown eyes and I want to kiss him so, so bad. I force my gaze to the floor instead.

"I have nowhere to go," I blurt. And clear my throat. "I don't know where to go, I mean."

He nods slowly, helping lean back into the bed. "I, uh, have something to tell you regarding that."

"Oh, God," I say. "They're gonna use me and Viggo as bait again, aren't they?"

"No, Merlin, no." His voice is gruff. "I got this today. Haven't opened it yet, but given that word about you has probably gotten to her by now, I reckon that's what it's about." There's a pink envelope in his hands and he slides his finger under the seal. "I apologize in advance." He pops it open.

"CHARLES GIDEON WEASLEY! HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING A FIANCE FROM YOUR POOR, DEAR MOTHER?! WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME ABOUT HER? WHAT, AM I NOT GOOD ENOUGH OF A MOTHER TO BE INFORMED OF MY SECOND-ELDEST'S UPCOMING WEDDING AND MARRIAGE?! HOW ON EARTH—"

He closes it. "It probably goes on for a good while."

I swallow. "We, uh, don't have to pretend to be together anymore. You can tell her the truth."

He stares for a few seconds before sitting on the chair. "Yeah. Here's my proposition, Greta. And I know you don't owe me a bloody thing but I'd like you to consider putting up the charade for a bit longer." He closes his eyes and his jaw is hard. "Gin told me this is the happiest she's seen Mum since…" He swallows. "And I'm just, I just don't want to take that away from her just yet."

"Happy? She sounded livid to me."

He laughs. "It's there, trust me. She's been waiting for me to catch a bride for a decade. Maybe longer."

I shake my head and fold my hands. "But won't that make the truth even more devastating?"

"Every little bit of joy helps. When you're grieving, I mean. You must know this."

I don't want to argue, so I say, "What's this got to do with my living arrangements?"

He crosses his arms and gives me an awkward smile. "You ever read about the Burrow?"


	21. Charlie and the Burrow

_A thousand apologies for the lateness. The summer has been wild. Wild, I tell you. My original novel, the one I'd been working on last winter and early spring, is getting published. WILD! I still plan on finishing this fic (because I NEED to see it out! I love this story too much to let it go!), and because I already know where it's going and how it will end, I am going to make it my FF priority. I'd love to get it finished before fall is over!_

 _I hope all you dear readers have been well. I'm so grateful to you for reviews and follows and faves. I know this isn't a typical fic, but it's got a place in my heart despite, or perhaps because of its weirdness._

 _Sending all the good wishes to you!_

* * *

The Burrow is big. All topsy-turvy, stone and wood and what looks like large pieces of sea glass around the windows. Little castle-like towers angle this way and that. It's like from Whoville, but more rustic, earthy, and… and real. Or as real as whatever this is gets. I touch a piece of sea glass on the door as I walk in. It's teal and warm.

Molly Weasley doesn't wait for me to place Viggo down. Like, I am legitimately leaning forward with him in my arms when she hugs me so hard and abruptly, it's like a slap. "I never dreamed of this day," she wails.

"Mum, let her breathe."

"Charles," she says, her voice inside of my ear. "This is your _bride_! You can't blame me-"

"You're scaring the baby."

With that, she pulls back to see Viggo's bottom lip out. "Oh! I'm sorry, little one. Here, I've got—" she pulls a lollipop from her pocket, and just like that, she and Viggo are best friends. He grins and she turns to me.

"Greta, yes? I wish I could say my son has told me all about you but—" She glares just behind me, presumably at said son. "Arthur!" she screams.

A stout man rumbles up, his face and hair even more brightly red than Molly's. He shakes my hand with a warm smile. "Get their things in the room," Molly says, pulling my hand toward the kitchen. "Let me get you some tea, dear. Would you like a scone? You do look a bit peckish."

"She's gluten-free, too, Mom," Charlie calls as Molly pulls me through the kitchen door.

"I've been experimenting with hazelnut flour," she says, giving me a smile. She places a plate of lavender-glazed scones under my nose. "Milk and sugar?"

"Milk is fine." I set Viggo on the chair next to me, his little legs dangling as he inhales his sucker, watching the unseen force that washes dishes and mashes potatoes here and there. He's not used to it, yet. Magic. Nor am I, to be honest. I'm almost scared for that day, when this is all.. normal to us.

Molly pushes tea into my hands. "Alright, my dear." She has a seat next to me. Her cheeks are so full of warm freckles, she looks as though she's glowing. She's wearing a powder blue dress with a spotless, white apron over it, and her auburn waves are pulled back. Also, she's looking at me like some just-found priceless treasure. "So!" She sips her own tea. "Tell me everything about yourself. And this little fellow."

And she's not kidding. Molly wants to know my date of birth, family life, favorite foods, life in America. She asks casually about Viggo's father, pretending to look a bit bored, which makes me think that this is the most important question to her thus far. So I am honest about it. Well, most of it. And her eyes water when I tell her about the tragedy, and I think they're real tears. She blinks them back, but excuses herself to check on the rising dough for dinner's rolls. I hear a bit of sniffling, then she tells herself in a hushed voice, "Oh, yes, I think she'll do."

When she returns, she interrogates me some more, this time about Viggo. With all the ways her eyes linger on the cuts and bruises on my face and hands, I'm surprised she doesn't ask about them. I know, though, Charlie had told his family that I'd been jumped— or whatever the wizard equivalent is— by some random asswipes. And that I was so distraught, it was best not to mention it to me. Regardless, I can tell Molly is about to explode with questions on my well-being, but she reigns it in. Barely. "Do you need a salve, dear?" she says, eyeing the cut above my eyebrow. "I know traveling can bring about aches and pains."

"No, I'm fine. Thank you very much."

She presses me further for details on my life, stopping only when Viggo and I are both yawning. She hollers at Charlie, who, at this point, I'm assuming has abandoned me.

But he appears in the kitchen. "Mum?"

"Why don't you show Greta and Viggo to your room, dear."

Charlie nods, and then pauses. " _My_ room?"

"That's what I said, darling."

"But—" he looks around. "Where do you want me to stay?"

Molly chuckles as if it's the most absurd thing she's ever been asked. "In your room, too, of course!"

Charlie blinks. "Mum, you wouldn't let Bill and Fleur stay in the same room on the night before their wedding—"

"Oh, those were different times." Molly waves him off. "You'll stay with your fiance and adopted son, Charlie, in your room." Her voice is slightly hard-edged, enough to stop whatever question he's forming next.

"Right." He claps his hands together. "Let me show you my— uh, our, room."

"Be down for dinner in an hour!"

"Yes, Mum."

I thank her profusely before grabbing Viggo and following Charlie.

x

"So, uh," Charlie says as we walk up the stairs. "Here." He grabs Viggo, who squeals. "How are you feeling?"

I shrug. "Not bad." Not good, either, but I don't say this.

Charlie glances at my arms, covered with a sweater, and my neck, covered with a scarf, but he says nothing more about it. He throws open a door and says, "Here we are."

I walk in slowly, first noting the bright gold light scattered all over the furniture. A full-sized bed sits in the center, off to the side, a wardrobe, desk and little breakfast nook. "That's new," Charlie says, gesturing to the nook.

"It's romantic," I say. The little table overlooks the garden in the backyard.

"That's Mum for you. Trying to get more grandchildren any way she can." His neck is pink as he speaks, but I let it go.

I open a door to the side of the desk, expecting a closet, but instead there's another little bedroom. A little blue-painted crib, a floating baby mobile made of glowing stars and moons over it. A rocking chair, all over carpet that looks like a cloud laid out.

I don't know why, but tears sting at my eyes. Back in our shitty apartment, back in the real world, I guess, Viggo slept with me. I couldn't afford a crib or bed for him. I was actually thinking of buying him his own blow-up mattress for when the time came for him to sleep alone. And, I don't know. Looking at this little nursery, and the meaning behind it, that we're welcomed here? It hit me all in the feels. And maybe, soon, a voice inside me whispers, we will be loved here, too.

I shake my head. No. Love is a real thing. This is unreal. I shut the door a little hard.

"You don't like it?" Charlie asks. He's tickling Viggo in the big bed.

I just stare for a moment, the image of them, so father and son-like in their mannerisms that I stop breathing for a few seconds too long.

"Hey." Charlie grabs my arm. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Charlie. Just sore." I gesture to my arms and all that.

"Shite. I'm sorry, Greta, I should've had you rest as soon as we got in."

He lifts Viggo to his shoulders, who grins at me. "Mama! I so high!"

"Yes, you are." I smile.

"I'll wear him out in the garden, yeah?" Charlie smiles. "Why don't you have a nap? I'll get you when dinner's ready."

I nod. And when Charlie leaves, shutting the door so quiet, I stop holding the tears back. I cry and cry and I hardly know why I'm crying anymore except that everything feels like too much. And I've never been good about dealing with too much.

x

"Greta?"

I gasp and jump up. "Oh," I say, sighing at the sight of Charlie in the light of dusk coming through the window. "Charlie, you scared me."

"I'm sorry. It's just— you missed dinner. I thought you might be hungry." He gestures to a plate on the breakfast nook. It's a Charlie-sized amount of food— a hunk of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, all covered in gravy. Off to the side is a bowl of chocolate pudding. My mouth waters.

"How long have I been out?"

He shrugs. "Three hours. Give or take."

"Why didn't you wake me up for dinner?"

"You were sleeping so soundly. Mum insisted to let you rest."

"And Vi—"

"Asleep in his room. He's knackered after we spent the whole evening chasing gnomes."

I nod and pull my sheets off. I feel all itchy, having fallen asleep in all my clothes. I get my legs over the bed and take a breath, standing. Immediately, I wobble. Charlie's arms are upon me, gripping my shoulders. "Thanks," I breathe, closing my eyes.

"Still numb when you get up?"

I nod. Though most of my legs have feeling again, getting out of bed is still a struggle.

"Here." Charlie drapes an arm around my waist and escorts me the ten feet to my dinner. He sets me down as gently as if I were Viggo and takes a seat opposite me. The chairs are made of wicker and I'm surprised his doesn't buckle under the weight of his gargantuan muscles. Magic, I guess.

He has the decency to not watch as I stuff my face, opting instead to gaze at the sunset out the window. The orange light is bright, peeking through clouds in thick rays. What's left of the garden leaves are fiery all along the edges. Jesus, is it fucking beautiful here.

When I'm too full for another bit of pudding, Charlie pulls a tin container out of his pocket. "Salve," he says. "Mum—"

"Insisted," I finish. "Thanks." I reach for it but he pulls back.

"I'll put it on you."

"Charlie."

"You could barely hold your fork up, Greta. I'll do it."

Jeez. So much for my thinking he didn't watch me eat. But his voice is gruff and frankly, I'm too exhausted to argue. He points at my sweater. "Change into your nightgown— or whatever you're wearing to bed." He coughs. "And lie down."

I stand, a little shaky but much better thanks to food. I bend and reach for my suitcase, but then, my head feels crazy dizzy. There's nothing but stars in front of my eyes for a second.

"Need help?"

I shake my head and stand, slowly. I sigh. Fuck the nightgown. I unravel the scarf and rip off my sweater, dropping both to the ground. I slip my jeans off, ignoring the choking sound Charlie emits from behind me. I'm wearing underwear. And I'll keep my bra on for propriety's sake. He's seen me in less, and I'm hurting too much to care right now.

I plop on the bed, wincing at the ache in my neck as I do so.

"Ready?"

I nod, glancing up at him. He looks so much taller from here on the bed. I mentally measure the width of his shoulders. Four feet? Five? Is that nuts? That's nuts. I blink when I realize the shoulders are growing larger, closer, as he sits beside me. There's a ping of metal as he pops the lid of the balm. He slips some into his fingers and begins with my head.

I doze in and out as Charlie rubs the balm over my neck and arms, but blink my eyes wide open when he tugs up my tank. "Sorry," he says, in that voice he always makes when he's blushing. "You— the bruise on your belly."

Right. I can't remember which of the fuckers pulled that sucker punch. I pull my shirt up almost to my bra, and Charlie continues his work. His fingers on the soft skin of my stomach remind me of how calloused his hands are. How large they are.

He rubs the salve at my hips and hesitates at my thighs. "It's fine," I say. "If you're uncomfortable—"

"I'll do it." He slides his hands over the tops of my thighs, where a knife made its way that nightmare of a night the week before. He slides his fingers to my inner thighs, where one of those idiots, the fat one, grabbed at me. Threatened me.

Charlie pauses. "They didn't—"

"No." Thank god. Real or not, that sort of violation might've broken the tiny bit of sanity I have left.

Charlie nods, relief evident at the dropping of his shoulders. His eyes, though, are still hard with the anger that has been bubbling up for a week. Maybe more, who knows. "Turn over."

I do the best I can, ignoring the feel of Charlie's hands at my hips to help. He lifts my shirt again, but it's clear he can't reach everything. "Just help me get it off," I say.

Thankfully, he does, without sputtering or coughing. But when I lie back, he mutters, "Fuck, Greta."

I hadn't had a chance to check out my back after being punched and knifed into a tree, but I guess it wasn't looking so hot. I didn't say anything as Charlie kneaded the salve in. Neither did he.

I don't know what sort of healing salves Molly Weasley knows how to cook after the experience of raising, what, a hundred children? But Christ, this one needs to be sold in every hospital and clinic on earth. The pain's almost gone, and, moreover, it's relaxing me. I can feel it sinking into my muscles, releasing any and all tension. By the time Charlie is finished, I'm nothing but goo.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he says, his voice hard and deeper than usual.

"What?" I mumble. "No."

"No?"

I'm too tired to talk, so I pat the place next to me on the bed.

"You sure?"

I make a thumbs-up sign without lifting my head.

He slides under the covers, careful, I think, not to bounce me out of the bed with his weight. Though I'm basically asleep, he keeps a careful distance between us. I reach my arm out until I'm touching something firm. He's firm all over, so I actually have no idea where my hand is, but then he shifts and cradles my hand in his, stroking me with those large, lovely fingers.

"I'm going to find him, Greta, I promise you. And I'm going to break every bone in his fucking body."

It's not the coziest bedtime story in the world, but damn, do I feel safe next to Charlie. And that safety wraps me up tight, warm, and I'm out before I know it.


End file.
